Aegis
by Grabbag Lapidary
Summary: 2012Movieverse, set about two years later. Dredd and his new Rookie stumble onto a new & dangerous drug, Justice Department politics & conspiracy, and a clandestine division headed up by a certain telepath. Can the Rookie prove himself in the crucible of uncertainty? (Now updated with suggestions from Starsurfer108!)
1. Aegis (part one)

**A/n :** For detailed author's notes for this story, please see the end. For general notes about my "Dredd" fics, please see my profile.

This story takes place approximately two years after the 2012 movie. Although not essential for understanding it, the story "Dredd 2" (faved on my profile) is canonical for this story.

If you enjoyed this story (and even if you didn't) please review – even if it is just a "good fic / bad fic" review (although more detail is nice). Without reviews, I don't know if I am writing things people want to read, or what needs to be changed or have more of / less of for future stories.

I have a _very_ simple rule – if you leave a review for me, I _will_ leave a review for you. I don't care what sort of stories you write, or even if I am familiar with the fandom – I will leave a review.

**Aegis (Part I)**

"So which one's mine?" growled Dredd, looking through the one-way mirror glass at the class of senior Cadets in the classroom beyond. Behind him, Judge-Tutor Novak gave a throaty, gravely chuckle.

"Same old Joe Dredd, huh?" she asked. She quickly rifled through the stack of files in her arms and selected one of them, offering it to him. She tossed her head and pointed with her chin. "Tall, dark and handsome at the back of the room," she said. "John Cornelius." Dredd opened the file and ran his eyes briefly over it. "He's good – that's why I assigned him to you. His hand-to-hand combat is phenomenal – he's been teaching classes to the juniors for the past three semesters."

"But?" asked Dredd. Novak – herself the Academy's senior hand-to-hand instructor – grinned.

"How'd you know there's a 'but'?" she asked.

Dredd gazed blankly at her. "There's always a 'but', Kim," he said.

If Tutor Novak were surprised at her old classmate using her first name, she didn't show it. She turned and looked through the mirror glass herself. Around her, senior Street Judges were flipping through the files on their soon-to-be Rookies, talking amongst themselves, sharing the odd joke. These few moments of safety and calm were a welcome respite from the pressures of the streets for the Judges chosen to adjudicate the cadets' final assessments; the assessments themselves an opportunity to do more than merely judge, an opportunity to teach, to pass on lessons hard-won on the streets. Most Judges welcomed assessments, were proud and eager to undertake them.

What Dredd felt about it, of course, was impossible to know. He stood apart from his fellow Judges, visor inches from the glass, seeing his own reflection projected on the youthful faces of the cadets and – perhaps – already making a judgment as to whether it fitted or not. He didn't pass many Rookies – the last had been Anderson, some two years before, and that had been entirely unexpected. The Chief Judge had called 3% "marginal" - Novak had called it what it was; a failure. She wondered if Dredd had seen it like that, and what had changed his mind.

But Novak was confident Cornelius would pass, and that he would benefit from Dredd's assessment. He mirrored Dredd's own isolation; his classmates were clustered in small groups chatting nervously, here and there casting what they thought were surreptitious glances towards the mirrored wall, while he was sitting quietly alone, scrolling at a data terminal.

"He always follows through," Novak explained. "Never leaves anything on the table."

Dredd turned to her. "Don't know I see that as a problem," he said.

She shrugged. "He needs some real-world experience; learn how to prioritize, know when to let go, you know?" She looked up at him, her blue-gray eyes sympathetic. "It's a tough world out there, Joe," she reminded him. "I don't want these kids to get broken."

"Don't have to tell me that, Kim," Dredd said, the very corner of his mouth twitching. It wasn't clear which statement he was responding to. He hit the control in the corner of the mirror window, tabbed a couple of buttons. He grunted as what Cornelius was reading was displayed on the glass in front of him – the daily briefing. "Cadets have access to that?" he asked. She shook her head.

"_Rookies_ do," she answered. "I upgrade their status just before you guys come in."

Dredd nodded. "Eager beaver," he murmured.

"_Conscientious_," she corrected him with a very slight edge. He didn't react. Greatly daring, she reached out and took his arm, spinning him to face her. "Hey," she said, "he's a good Cadet, a good kid. Knocked me on my ass and marked Rawne. _Twice_. He'll make a good Judge."

Dredd glanced down at the shorter woman's hand on his bicep, felt the vice-like strength in those slim fingers. "You telling me my job, Novak?"

The blonde woman shook her head wearily. "You judge, Judge," she said shortly. She turned to face the room in general. "Alright, people," she called, "let's go meet your Rookies!"

oOo

"A Rookie-Judge on assessment is likely to involved in armed combat. One in five don't survive the first day. You may be required to carry out on-the-spot executions of convicted perps. Incorrect sentencing, is an automatic fail. Disobeying a direct order from your assessor, is an automatic fail. Losing your primary weapon or having it taken from you . . . is an automatic fail. You ready, Rookie?"

Dredd turned to face Cornelius – the Rookie was taller than him by a inch or so, broad across the shoulders and chest, lean in the hips and light on his feet. His hair was black in the way Novak's was blonde – shockingly, stunningly so – thick with body, styled in a practical crew cut that was nevertheless attractive. Dredd was no judge of such things, but Kim had called him handsome – his cheeks were high, his jaw angular, his neck bulging with cords of muscle. As Dredd watched, he lifted his helmet from under his arm and set it on his head. "Yes, Sir," he said firmly.

"Your assessment starts now." The two of them had reached the garage, swinging themselves onto their lawmasters. Cornelius tabbed a control and the earbead in his helmet squawked to life;

"_ . . . on L-ramp of Metro Parkway. Jumper on floor fifty-nine of Coolidge hab-block. Robbery with violence at corner of Nine and Wagner. Futsie at . . ._"

Cornelius lifted his wrist. "Control, Dredd and Rookie will take Nine & Wagner. Requesting more details." A map with locations highlighted flashed on his screen, crawling red dots tracked by aerial drone. "Dispatch medi-teks to victim's location – we're going after the perps," Cornelius ordered.

"_Wilco, Cornelius,_" Control confirmed. Dredd watched with interest as his mouth twisted with annoyance.

"You can use your name, Rookie," he assured him. "You do have one."

Cornelius turned to him and grinned grimly. "Not yet, Sir." He kicked down, starting the engine and sending his bike weaving into traffic.

oOo

The victim had been a well-dressed businessman – high-fashion kneepads and a polka-dot suit with a popped collar – who'd just come from a leisurely breakfast. The 911 call reported two men coming up behind him, one of them driving a knife hard into his kidneys and the other ripping the briefcase from his hand. The grainy video feed from the drone camera, projected by laser on the inside of Cornelius' visor, showed two perps running away – one carrying the briefcase, the other after riffling quickly through their victim's pockets and extracting a wallet and some kind of personal computer.

"Control's database IDs one of the perps as a repeat offender – additional three years on top of any other sentence." Cornelius sounded as calm as a Judge-Tutor at drill, even as he weaved his bike through traffic, zooming along the elevated roadways to cut off the running criminals. A couple of bike-lengths behind him, watching his Rookie's driving with a critical eye – Cornelius was a careful, measured driver, not taking unnecessary risks but rather moving swiftly and safely through the morning rush – Dredd listened across their shared-circuit.

"Gotta catch him first, Rookie," he growled. In his earbead, he heard Cornelius gently laugh.

"That is my intention, Sir," he said. Dredd saw his head turn, visibly looking in his mirror and indicating his slide into the left lane well in time. Dredd followed him down the spiraling off-ramp, brake lights gleaming. Cornelius made the final loop seconds before Dredd, swinging his bike around the front wheel with a scream of burning rubber so it straddled the slidewalk. His lawgiver was out and leveled like a duelist's, pointed at the two figures running towards him. "You're under arrest," he announced, his voice amplified by the bike's speakers. "Drop any weapons and . . ."

The perps skidded to a shocked halt, one of them glancing around, panicking and unsure what to do. The other – scruffily dressed, twitching and with pin-point pupils – reacted with unnatural swiftness, reaching into his jacket and beginning to draw a pistol. Lunging and reaching with his other hand, he made to grab a slender woman who'd been walking on the slidewalk and was now sprinting out of the line of fire.

Cornelius' first bullet tore through his stomach, doubling him over, and the second crashed into his wrist, driving fragments of shattered bone into his abdomen. He crumpled backwards, his gun falling from nerveless fingers and his belly a bloody mess. As Dredd pulled his bike alongside his Rookie's, Cornelius eased himself off his lawmaster and walked towards the other perp. He glanced down at the one he'd shot as he walked past, kicking the gun out of his reach. The perp looked dead – there was no flutter of pulse in the wounds – but it paid to make sure.

The other criminal had his hands up. "Don't shoot!" he begged. "Don't shoot! I'll come quietly!" He dropped the suitcase he was carrying and put his hands on his head. "It was his idea! _His idea!_"

Cornelius holstered his weapon and grabbed the perp's wrist with his other hand, spinning him around and reaching for the cuffs. "Robbery with violence, seven years," he sentenced. "Repeat offender, additional three." He jerked the man's wrist down and slapped one bracelet on. "Can you do the math yourself, or you want me to add it up?" He reached for the other wrist.

The perp spun abruptly, Cornelius' hand still holding the cuffs so he was anchored to him. "No fair, Judge!" he exclaimed. "No fair! It was his idea! His idea!" From a couple of yards away, Dredd watched to see how Cornelius would react – there was a danger here; the Rookie didn't have complete control of the perp. He hadn't frisked him for weapons yet – a knife that close could be lethal, and the whole aggrieved victim act could be just that; an act.

Cornelius' response was immediate, surprising and almost balletic in its beauty and simplicity – keeping a tight grip on the cuffs he drove his fist into the perp's guts, doubling him over with a grunt of pain. He grabbed the back of his neck, lifted him off his feet and spun him, stepping backwards as he slammed the perp to the ground, stunning him. With a single step he pinned the nearest wrist beneath his boot and drove his daystick with paralyzing force into the other elbow. The perp lay semi-conscious on his back, his mouth opening and closing slackly like a fish out of water. It was very possible his brain still thought he was upright, so swift and sure had Cornelius been. "Two years for resisting arrest," he said dispassionately. He reached down and hauled him upright, spinning him around and cuffing his other wrist. His free hand quickly swept around the perp's chest and thighs, pulling a long, double-edged blade with a tape-wrapped handle from a hidden sheath. "Concealing a deadly weapon, twelve months," he announced. "Have you been keeping track?"

The perp groaned, his eyes glazed. Cornelius glanced over his shoulder at the woman the first perp had lunged for. "Are you uninjured, miss?" he asked. "Would you like me to summon a medi-tek?"

She gulped and shook her head. "No, no," she stammered, immoderately loud. She stuck a finger in her ear and wiggled it. "Thank you, Judge," she said with feeling. She wiggled her finger again. "Can you hear that ringing?" she asked.

Cornelius ignored her for a moment and lifted his wrist. "Control, I have one slab and one grab – requesting catch- and meat-wagons to my GPS." He lowered his wrist and turned to the woman. "You should see an aural specialist, miss," he advised. "A lawgiver discharge is commonly in the 90 to 100 decibel range, within the danger zone for hearing damage." She blinked once or twice, dumbly. "If you would clear the crime scene, miss?" Cornelius asked with a twitch of his head.

The woman gasped theatrically, her hand at her mouth, and nodded. She started to reach for him, thought better of it, and then ducked away. "Thank you, Judge," she repeated.

Cornelius smiled ruggedly. "You're welcome, miss," he called after her. Around the little tableau of two Judges, two bikes, and two perps a ring of gawking bystanders had gathered, keeping a distance that was both respectful and frightened. "See?" remarked Cornelius to his prisoner. "Admiration for the law. Lack of that is why no-one likes you."

The perp twisted, trying to jerk his hands free. "Drokk you, man," he spat over his shoulder. "Drokk you right in your spuggly face." Without particular malice, Cornelius put his hand on the back of the perp's head and bounced his skull off the bollard in front of him. Cartilage and enamel crunched and blood sprayed.

"See, it's stuff like that," said Cornelius. "Insulting a Judge in the performance of his duty? That's, like, six months. I'm going to pretend I didn't understand the street slang." Dredd's voice cut off any reply the perp might make;

"What do you make of this, Rookie?"

Cornelius glanced over his shoulder, seeing the senior Judge crouched down next to the dead perp, pulling his collar down. "Take five," hissed Cornelius in his perp's ear, tightening the ratchet on the cuffs and kicking him in the back of the knee so he faceplanted with a cry. He turned and crouched beside Dredd, who stood to give him access. "Hypospray injector site," Cornelius said briefly. "Directly over the carotid, not a recommended location for self-administration." He probed the angry, inflamed circle with a gloved fingertip; puss squished in subcutaneous blisters. "Looks infected, but there's also localized chem trauma – definitely a narco injection site." He looked up at Dredd, perhaps wanting to see confirmation or approval, but what could be seen of his face was as unreadable as his visor. Cornelius tried not to let it faze him. "I've not seen it before, Sir," he continued, "but I think this is Boost." Dredd's face was impassive.

"Can't write a report on 'think', Rookie," he growled.

Cornelius was already patting the perp's clothes, pulling objects out of his pockets. A few credits, a badly-maintained knife, presspulp calling cards with glossy pictures of alluring women on them. He laid each item neatly by the cooling corpse, only pausing to half-rise from his crouch and – without looking – sweep his leg so the feet of the other perp, struggling upright to run away with cuffed hands and all, went skidding out from under him. He crashed to the ground with a cry of pain. "Add on another three years for attempted escape," Cornelius said without even turning around. "I said _take five_. Next time, I'll let you run far enough to justify a bullet." He didn't wait for a response, instead giving a little grunt of satisfaction as he pulled a pharmaceutical hypospray out of the perp's pocket. He stood up and showed it to Dredd.

"It's a disposable," he said with distaste, "but they'll reuse them on the street, especially for narcotics. Might even share them – likely where the infection came from." He twisted the hypospray and the dispenser and reservoir came apart. He reached behind his hip for a portable chem analyzer, pulling out the wand from the body of the device and gingerly dipping it in the gloopy orange-brown residue. The analyzer thought for a second and then beeped. Cornelius glanced at the readout and nodded. "Class 1 restricted substance, 88% match for Boost."

"Eighty-eight?" asked Dredd. "The machine's not having a good day?"

Cornelius couldn't help but crack a smile – he knew very well what Dredd was doing, and was happy to indulge his assessor. He glanced down at his perp, still lying on the floor, no longer trying to move away. "Incomplete match is common, Sir – could be any number of reasons. Contaminated or degraded sample, cut with something else – floor cleaner is surprisingly popular, same viscosity and color, because aesthetics in drugs is apparently what the cool kids these days are all about." Dredd didn't smile, but Cornelius hadn't expected him to. "Or, it could be a new recipe Control hasn't seen."

"So," asked Dredd, "what do we do?"

Cornelius held up the analyzer. "Already transmitted the results to Control – they can confirm. Forensics analysis on this perp" Cornelius nudged the corpse with his boot "might shed more light."

Dredd didn't seem impressed. "And how long's that gonna take, Rookie?" he asked scornfully.

"Oh, days, weeks," said Cornelius lightly. The lab was always backed up, and chem analysis on a dead perp with no direct pending investigation wouldn't be a priority. "Which is why I'm only doing it because those are regs. We do old-fashioned police-work." He glanced down at the other perp, blowing bloody bubbles with his spit as the pressure on his laboring lungs became too much. "You think he knows anything?"

"He looks pretty clean to me," Dredd said with expert obfuscation – he was still assessing, and this was the Rookie's call. Cornelius had already dropped to a crouch – his knee in the small of the perp's back, eliciting a yelp of pain – and was riffling expertly through his clothes. Other than the usual pocket litter of a small-time hoodlum, he came up empty. He grabbed him by the collar and hauled him upright as he stood.

"I'm gonna ask you _once_," Cornelius warned. "Your buddy here – where'd he get the dope?"

The perp twisted in Cornelius' grasp. "Drokk, I don't _know_!" he sobbed. "Grud's truth, man, you gotta believe me! I never even _saw_ him before today! He ain't my buddy – I just met him in a bar. Crazy tweaker, said he knew about some suit we could hit for scratch. I don't know anything 'bout him 'cept that – no idea where he got the drugs."

Cornelius cocked his head, looked at the perp carefully. "You called him a tweaker – so you knew he was using restricted substances illicitly? You suspected he would use his cut of the proceeds to purchase additional restricted substances without a prescription? When you agreed to participate in criminal activity with him?"

The perp didn't seem long on education, so it took him a few seconds and a long, drawn-out, "Whaa . . ?" to realize what Cornelius was asking. "Yeah," he said eventually. "Yeah, I knew he was a tweaker – pretty drokking obvious, right? Twitchin' all over the place like a rad victim." He shrugged. "Sure I knew he was gonna buy dope – what else is he gonna do with the scratch? Flowers for his me-maw?" He chucked at his own joke.

"Premeditated participation in a narcotic-related crime with full knowledge thereof," said Cornelius dismissively. "Additional eighteen months. I make your current sentence seventeen and a half years." He ignored the perp's protests and turned to Dredd. "I don't think he's any use for us in running down the source of the narcotics, Sir," he said. "I recommended we slap him in lockup until we can determine for certain, of course."

Dredd looked carefully at him, Novak's warning returning. "You want to find the supplier, Rookie?" he asked. "Small-time hood, probably buying from another small-time hood? There's a lot of other crimes out there."

Cornelius didn't immediately answer, instead turning away to the approaching meat-wagon. A pair of medi-teks brought a stretcher over and started to lift the corpse onto it. "I want that taken to the lab before resyk," Cornelius ordered. "Full chem and tox screen – he's on something."

The older medi-tek rolled his eyes. "C'mon, Judge," he moaned, "you know we're backed up." Cornelius turned away as he answered.

"The lab will get even more backed-up if I take you in for refusing to follow regulations, medic," he said easily. He didn't wait for an answer, instead shoving the perp back to his knees and moving towards his lawmaster. He straddled the saddle and accessed Control's database. Dredd moved to stand at his shoulder.

"Are you trying to impress me, Rookie?" he growled.

Cornelius didn't look up from the information he was punching into his bike's screen. "No, Sir," he said firmly. "I'm trying to do my job. I _know_ they're backed up – I don't need miracles, I need diligence. So does the city."

"I mean about finding the source," Dredd clarified. "Like I said, lots of crime out there. This sort of investigation . . ."

"Takes time," Cornelius finished for him. He turned to face him. "Yes, Sir, I know – but it also pays dividends. We take a supplier off the street, maybe people think twice about dealing. Addicts have to go somewhere else for their fix – they're off their routine, they stand out, they get caught. Costs the gangs resources." He shrugged, glanced around the nervous crowd keeping back from the crime scene. "And it shows the citizens we can be more than reactive, Sir," he said quietly. "Gives them hope that maybe things can be turned around."

Dredd looked at him for a second and then nodded. "What you got?"

"No point in trying to trace the drugs themselves," explained Cornelius. "Narcofabs don't exactly keep records. But the dispenser" he held it up for Dredd to see "is a common brand, with a serial number. Now, he could have stolen it, found it in the trash, even had a legitimate prescription for something . . ."

"Or some doc dealt it under the table?" finished Dredd.

Cornelius nodded. "If we're lucky. Manufacturer's database keeps good records; serial number matches to a batch shipped last month." He scrolled through the data, and grinned. "And we're in luck. The whole batch – a pallet of twenty-five boxes of a gross each – went to Boots' Pharmacy on level 34 of the Cosgrove hab-block. Go there, flash the bronze, lift some rocks and see what scurries?"

Dredd shrugged non-noncommittally. "Your call, Rookie," he reminded him.

Cornelius nodded and punched up a map on the screen of his bike. "Two miles away – can we leave the perp tethered here or do we wait for the catch-wagon?"

Dredd swept his eyes over the crowd. "They'll leave him well enough alone," he grunted without really seeming to much care about or believe it. "Cuff him to the railings, update Control. I'll remind them of the penalty for vigilantism."

oOo

"Can I help you, Judge?" The girl behind the pharmacy counter was pretty in a forgettable way, with chubby dimpled cheeks and a spiked blonde bob with green-frosted tips. Like all the staff, she was wearing a white labcoat with an oval blue badge. Cornelius, his helmet under his arm, kinked one side of his mouth in a rugged smile. Dredd remained standing impassive at the door of the pharmacy; arms folded, looking at nothing, seeing everything.

"Perhaps," said Cornelius. He laid the injector on the counter. "Tell me about these." She looked at it.

"It's a disposable hypospray, Judge," she said carefully. "They're supplied with intravenous medication."

"Any other times when they're supplied?" asked Cornelius. "You sell them? Any record-keeping on who gets one?"

The girl looked nervous. "They aren't a prescription item, Judge," she explained. She glanced over her shoulder. "Perhaps I should get the pharmacist . . ."

Cornelius ignored her offer. "That means you don't have records?" he asked. "Or does that mean you sell them, give them out?" She shook her head emphatically.

"Oh, no, never," she said firmly. "They are given out with prescriptions _only_. They can be misused."

"This one was," said Cornelius shortly. He looked around the busy pharmacy, the patrons coming and going, the constant flow of movement. "How easy would it be for someone to steal one of these?"

The girl shrugged nervously, stepped backwards to point at a box at her feet just behind the counter. "We just keep them here," she admitted, "and we don't count them out – someone comes in with a prescription, we grab one and drop it in the bag with the drugs. When the box is empty, we go into the back and get a new one." She bit her lip. "I'm sorry, Judge."

Cornelius shrugged. "No law against that," he assured her. "Someone would have to get behind the counter – jump it, reach over – to grab one, right? You've got cameras running?" She nodded.

"And we'd see that – there's always someone here." She gestured behind her. "A lot of this stuff isn't prescription, but it's only sold over the counter – we don't keep it in the aisles." She held her gaze with his, hoping he believed her. "I don't think anyone stole it, Judge," she said. "Not from us, at least."

"Maybe stole it from the legitimate user?" he asked. She nodded. "That's most likely it – I just had to run down possibilities, you know?" She smiled and nodded again, eagerly. He looked down and away, holding his chin in his hand, giving the impression of being in disappointed thought. He looked up. "Who handles inventory?" he asked sharply.

The girl blithely turned and gestured further along the counter. "Aaron does," she said, pointing at a slim young man with acne-pocked cheeks, bleached-white hair buzz-cut so the scalp showed through and scrawny, knobbly wrists protruding from the sleeves of his lab coat. He had a presspulp cup of coffee – the real stuff, not synthi-caf – in front of him under the counter and as Cornelius watched he reached down and took a sip. "Hey, Aaron!" the girl called. "Judge wants to talk to you."

Aaron started and turned, a look of worry on his face. Nervousness when dealing with Judges was to be expected, but this was a little more than normal and almost enough for Cornelius. Still, he wanted to be sure. He lifted the dispenser off the counter and held it up. "Recognize this?" he asked. "I found it on some tweaker – any idea how he got it?"

Aaron's face assumed an almost comical look of horror and then – abruptly and without warning except the inevitability of the attempt – he turned and ran. He slammed into someone coming out of the back room, knocking them aside in a shower of pill bottles and bolted through the doorway.

Cornelius had vaulted over the counter almost before Aaron was moving, the girl diving out of his way. He sprinted through the doorway Aaron had darted through, two paces behind him as he weaved through desks and shelves. Cornelius didn't bother chasing him – he just shoved hard against a table and slammed it into the fugitive on the other side. Aaron yelped and crashed to the ground, rolling over and clutching his ankle. "You broke my leg, man!" he cried.

Cornelius reached down and grabbed him by the collar, hauling him upright. "Ain't that a shame?" he asked as he cuffed him. "If _only_ you knew someone who could hook you up with some painkillers."

oOo

The booking officer at the Hall of Justice looked up as he keyed in Cornelius' ID to process the perp. "Interrogation room A-12 has been assigned for this prisoner," he reported, reading from his screen. "You are to transfer custody there."

Cornelius, his hand a vice-grip on Aaron's shoulder, generously holding the wounded perp upright to limit weight on his busted ankle, glanced over at Dredd for a moment. "Excuse me?" he asked the booking officer. He shook his head. "My collar, my perp, my interrogation."

"I think I'm gonna be sick, man," Aaron moaned. "I might've got an embolism, man, did you think of that? I could be getting a blood clot or something. They call it _thrombosis_. Did you know that?" The Judges ignored him.

"You're on assessment, Rookie," said the booking officer pointedly. "If anything, it would be _our_ collar, _our_ perp, _our_ interrogation." Muscles bulged at the points of Cornelius' jaw, but it was Dredd who spoke.

"His collar, his perp, his interrogation," he growled. He was leaning against the booking desk, idly picking at a frayed seam on his glove. Abruptly, he looked up, pointing his visor directly at the booking officer. "That's assessment," he explained pointedly. "His call, his successes." He turned to face Cornelius. "His mistakes," he added.

The younger Judge tried not to be too obvious about swallowing nervously. "Who requested custody transfer?" he asked the booking officer. The desk jockey keyed a few buttons, his brow furrowing with confusion.

"Records say . . . _Aegis_," the booking officer said slowly. He looked up at the two Judges. "I don't have anything more than that. But it's a level eight request."

Level eight was minor divisional administration, one level above sector commanders. Cornelius thought for a second, trying to remember something he was pretty sure he never knew but really should have done. He turned to Dredd. "My apologies, Sir," he said humbly, "but I am unfamiliar with Aegis." He suddenly looked much younger than he had mere moments before, appealing to Dredd with a _what do I do now?_ expression on his face.

"You're not the only one, Rookie," Dredd rumbled. "I guess it's above our paygrade."

"You guess right." The Chief Judge's voice appeared as suddenly as she did. Cornelius snapped to immediate attention as the compact woman addressed them, taking his hand off Aaron's shoulder. The perp gave a wail of distress and stumbled, putting weight on his broken ankle and crumpling painfully to the floor. The dark skinned woman smiled. "At ease, Rookie," she said kindly.

Cornelius broke attention into a perfect parade-ground ease. "Ma'am," he said crisply.

"You know I hate politics," Dredd complained. She turned to face him.

"You know I don't care," she said evenly. She glanced over and up at Cornelius – he was a full-head or more taller than her, jaw set, gazing at nothing, a classic product of the Academy. "How's he doing?"

"I'm still making my judgment." Dredd wasn't about to be drawn. "I want a full shift out of him before I decide." Next to Cornelius, Aaron tried to stand – the Judge grabbed him under the arm and jerked him to his feet.

"Ma'am, can you tell us what this is about?" asked Cornelius. Behind the glass of his visor, Dredd's eyes swept from his Rookie to the Chief Judge and then the booking officer, and back again. _Us_. Not me, us. It was a minor thing, a small fracture in Cornelius' confidence, but he noticed it.

"The case you're working falls within Aegis' jurisdiction, Rookie," the Chief Judge said. "Control flagged it when you transmitted evidence. Take the perp to interrogation room A-12 and transfer custody. Then get back on the streets." She raised a single brushstroke brow. "You understand, Rookie?"

"Hey, this ain't fair!" Aaron exclaimed. "Sure, I stole some dispensers but you can't just hand me over! What about my rights?"

Cornelius turned to him. "You're a convicted perp," he reminded him, "you _have_ no rights." He shut him up with a glare and faced the Chief Judge again. "Yes, Ma'am," he said tightly. "I understand. Transfer custody to Aegis. Ma'am," he asked with a faint air of belligerence, "what is Aegis?"

The Chief Judge's face was flint. "Like I said, Rookie," she said silverly, "that's above your paygrade."

Behind his own visor, Cornelius rolled his eyes. "Yes, Ma'am." His voice was bitter. He seemed to consider. "Ma'am, I'd like to remain with this case – I understand the final decision will likely be Aegis', but I would appreciate it if you would make the recommendation."

The Chief Judge hadn't been really directing her full attention to Cornelius, but now she did – looking at him carefully, sizing him up, her expert gaze taking in all the little details and clues; the pristine uniform, the well-organized equipment, the every-ready combat stance even while at-ease. She flicked her eyes sideways at Dredd, perhaps seeing if he would come to his Rookie's rescue, but the older Judge was – once again – leaning against the desk, studiously examining a frayed seam on his glove. "Let's step away for a second, Rookie . . ." she flicked her eyes downwards "_Cornelius_."

If Cornelius was nervous, he gave no sign. He inclined his head and took a couple of steps away, around the corner from the booking desk. Aaron jeered and laughed. "Yeah, man!" he exclaimed. "Police brutality, man! Getting out of here on a _technicality_! Sweet!" The Chief Judge 'accidentally' caught him with her boot in his bad ankle as she moved away, and he crashed to the ground with a cry of pain, his cuffed hands unable to break his fall.

"The Chief Judge wished to speak with me privately?" Cornelius spoke as if he had been summoned from three sectors away to the office high in the Hall of Justice, politely attracting the attention of the over-worked woman bent over her desk piled high with papers. The Chief Judge stared at him for a second or two, diminutive in front of him, wondering just what game the Academy was playing.

"Are you shining me on, Rookie?" she asked. "Or is this a misguided attempt to impress me? Or Dredd?" She didn't wait for an answer. "Let me let you into a secret; it won't work. On either of us."

"No, Ma'am," said Cornelius without moving his jaw – his teeth were not quite gritted. He was staring at a distant point above her head, still standing at effortless ease, his helmet now under his arm. "I'm not trying to impress anyone. I'm trying to do my job." He looked down at her, held her dark eyes in his – his were large, warm chocolate brown with flecks of gold in the iris. "Ma'am," he said earnestly, "I ran this punk down – he's dealing dispensers under the table."

The Chief Judge snorted and threw up her hands. "What's the street value of those things?" she asked. "Five creds apiece? Aren't there better things for you to be doing with your time?"

"I'd ask a level eight clandestine division the same question, Ma'am," Cornelius said solidly. He sighed and ran his hand through his hair – the Chief Judge was suddenly struck by just how _young_ he really was; despite the height and weight, confidence and undoubted skills, he was still a Rookie, out on the streets for the first time. "Look, Ma'am," he pleaded. "I took a risk – I admit that. This could have led nowhere – some tweaker stealing a five cred piece of Sino-Cit plastic crap at best, a total dead-end at worst. But it didn't – that perp back there" he pointed with a long arm "is dealing these things. He says he only shifted one box – I don't believe that for a second, but it doesn't matter. He's moving hyposprays to someone – probably the narcos. I can follow the chain from him to them, take them off the streets."

"And so can Aegis, Rookie." The Chief Judge's voice was calm and measured. "I understand – you want the collar, you want to finish this up. I get that – I really do. But – and here's a little practical law maybe the Tutors didn't teach you – sometimes you don't get to finish things up."

For a second, Cornelius looked at her, his mouth half-open. And then he bit his bottom lip and slowly nodded. "I see," he said. He folded his arms and looked at a corner of the ceiling. "I get it."

The Chief Judge put her hands on her hips. "You see what, Rookie?" she demanded. "You get _what_?"

Cornelius looked down at her, half-turned his head almost as if he wanted to glance at Dredd, didn't. "Permission to speak freely, Ma'am?" he asked.

The Chief Judge actually laughed. "You haven't been so far?" she derided. She gestured theatrically. "Please, proceed."

Cornelius bit his lip before he spoke, tamping down his frustration and the sense of injustice. "This isn't about me wanting to close a case, Ma'am," he explained. "It's not about the collar. I really don't give a spugging damn about that, you've got to believe me."

The Chief Judge folded her arms very slowly. "Go on," she said evenly.

"We can respond to six percent of crimes," he said. "You know that, Ma'am – and you know improving that is all-but-impossible right now. But _which_ six-percent do we respond to?" he asked. "Do we just deal with superficial symptoms of the problem, or do we pick a crime, follow the leads, drill down, find the source, snuff it out and move on to the next?" He pointed back towards the perp again, his movements and voice passionate. "He'll roll on the next link in the chain and we can follow that back and bust the whole nest. Take the problem off the streets for good."

The Chief Judge seemed to consider. "You'll make enemies doing that," she remarked.

Cornelius rolled his head on his powerful neck, twitching the side of his mouth. "It's a cliché, Ma'am, but I ain't here to make friends." She laughed.

"That you are not," she chuckled. "But you might find yourself with some anyway," she added obliquely. She turned away from him, her chin in her hand. Seconds passed. Cornelius squirmed.

"Ma'am," he said eventually, "if I've overstepped, I apologize, but . . ." She turned to face him as his voice drifted off. She gestured for him to continue. He inhaled deeply and straightened into his elegant ease. "Ma'am," he said earnestly, "just tell me Aegis'll chase this down and won't just let this go. Obviously, there's something bigger than I know here – their investigation, their collar. Just promise me they'll follow through."

The Chief Judge shook her head. "Can't promise you that, Rookie," she said apologetically. "That's a call for whoever's got point . . . and, as of this moment, you've got joint with Aegis." She lifted her hand to forestall his thanks and flicked her head. "Get your perp to A-12 – I'll square things with Aegis. They'll meet you there."

oOo

"You gave him a painkiller, Rookie?" For the second time that day, Dredd looked through mirror-glass at the subject in question. Cornelius, coming through the door to the interrogation room's observation chamber, nodded.

"Yeah," he said wearily. "Hopefully that might stop him bitching for five minutes." He glanced around – other than the two of them, the room was empty. "No sign of Aegis?" he asked. Dredd shrugged.

"I guess not," he growled. "Whoever they are."

Cornelius stepped over to the synthi-caf machine set against the wall. "Caf?" he asked. Dredd shook his head. Cornelius slipped a presspulp cup under the spout and tabbed one of the buttons. The smell of the scalding liquid was inviting, but the taste as he sipped it was something else. "You know anything about them, Sir?" Cornelius asked.

Dredd shook his head. "Never heard the name before today, Rookie," he admitted. "But level eight is pretty high – a minor division, or a sub-division. Aegis . . ." He ran the word around his mouth.

"It's ancient Greek; the shield of a goddess, the decapitated head of Medusa used to terrify," Cornelius glossed.

The corner of Dredd's mouth twitched. "Academy education's a wonderful thing," he murmured.

Cornelius shrugged modestly. "I like to read," he said.

"What else do you like to do?" asked Dredd abruptly. Cornelius looked at him with a furrowed brow. "When you're off-duty, what do you like to do? You're still on assessment, Rookie," he reminded him.

"Yes, Sir," Cornelius answered. He thought for a moment. "Gotta say I don't get a lot of free time, Sir," he admitted. "With classes, gym, assignments – it's nice to just sit for an hour and read a book. Not much space in the Academy dorms, either – but you know that." Dredd nodded. "My mum paints, oils. Always wanted to try that."

"Academy lined you up with an apartment?" Dredd handled small-talk the way other Judges handled interrogations, but Cornelius didn't mind. He nodded.

"Yes, Sir," he said. "Got my first choice; Dalton hab-block. Moved my stuff in two days ago." He grinned sheepishly. "A pile of books, my uniforms, not much else."

"Already moved," Dredd remarked. "That sure you're going to pass?"

Cornelius shook his head. "That sure I'm leaving the dorms one way or another, Sir," he explained.

"Heh." Dredd didn't quite laugh. He thought for a second. "Dalton hab. That's sector 119, right?"

Cornelius' face was suddenly unreadable. "Yes, Sir," he said tightly. "Yes, it is."

"Hmm." Dredd stared through the glass at the perp, his hands twitching with impatience. Abruptly, he turned. "Hope this isn't a dead end, Rookie," he growled. "Lot of time cooling our heels." Cornelius swallowed and nodded.

"My apologies, Sir . . ." he began. Dredd shook his head.

"If it wasn't worth it I'd have closed the nutcracker, Rookie," he remarked. "I'd be back at the Academy with Novak saying she told me so. You want to run deep not wide?" He gave a one-shouldered shrug. "Your assessment, your call – how many times do I have to tell you that?"

Cornelius nodded, grateful. "Thank you, Sir."

"Besides," Dredd continued as if Cornelius hadn't spoken, "I want to know about Aegis – level eight clandestine division?" He shook his head. "Can't be good news."

Cornelius once again didn't take the bait to speculate without information or evidence. He stared at his half-empty cup of synthi-caf, grimaced and dropped it in the trash. "Is there ever any other kind?" he asked. Dredd didn't answer.

"Novak says you teach the younger cadets, hand-to-hand – you might continue if you pass?"

Cornelius nodded, seemed to consider. "I think I'd like that, Sir," he said.

"Some Judges split their time." Dredd didn't sound impressed. "Not sure if I agree with it, but the Chief Judge and Principal do. Rawne still teaches knives, right?"

Rawne was a senior member of the SJS – the Special Judicial Service, internal affairs – and perhaps the deadliest knife fighter in the city. Cornelius nodded. "Three classes a week, Sir."

Dredd turned and looked at him, his jaw set. "Can you take him, Rookie?" he growled. Cornelius laughed and shook his head.

"Drokk, no!" he exclaimed. "Not with blades, at least," he clarified.

Dredd grunted noncommittally. "Might want to work on that," was all he said.

"That's why I carry a gun, Sir," said Cornelius dryly.

Although it didn't seem quite possible, Dredd actually gave a very small laugh. "Heh-heh," he chuckled. He looked his Rookie up and down. "Yeah," he nodded.

The door to the observation room opened and a single Judge entered, a hardshell folder with a cup of coffee balanced on it in one hand. She was dressed in well-maintained Street fatigues that had seen hard wear, without the armor web or helmet. She was pretty – beautiful, actually, to Cornelius eyes – with a tousled cascade of rich blonde hair framing a heart-shaped face in which sapphire-blue eyes kinked mischievously. Her mouth was wide and generous, rose-pink and – despite its current immobility – held every promise of a wonderful smile. Her badge was clipped to her belt, just above her left hip. Cornelius dropped his gaze there – Dredd said the name aloud as he read it.

"Anderson," Dredd rumbled in greeting. "You're Aegis? Wondered what you'd been doing this last year." Anderson walked to the table, set the file folder down and picked up her coffee.

"Miss me as your partner?" she asked. "You could have looked me up, you know," she reminded him. She sipped her coffee and smiled – Cornelius had been right; she had the most wonderful smile.

"Ma'am," he said by way of formal greeting. She enveloped him with her butcher-blue gaze and more, sliding her awareness around the edges of his mind. She walked towards him, her eyes on her feet, stopped with her toes a boot's length from his. He didn't break from parade-ground ease, didn't quail or take a step back. She lifted her chin, found herself staring at his chest, tilted her neck back so she could look him in the eye.

"John Cornelius," she said softly. She was a clear foot shorter than him, her torso seemingly half his width, compact and slender but with – to his expert martial-artist's eyes – dense muscles and excellent proportions of shoulders, chest, waist, hips and limbs. "Top of his class, Novak's protege, devoted, focused . . ." She glanced over at Dredd. "_Conscientious_. Pushed the Chief Judge for every good reason. Hmm . . ."

Cornelius was still assessing her; she would be a competent fighter, quick and precise with a possibility of cruelty. This close, he was in range of her scent – clean sweat and polished-leather, unfragranced shampoo and a soap he couldn't place. His lips twisted into a wry grin despite himself. "You read my file or my mind, Ma'am?" he asked.

She turned away, sitting at the table and pulling the file towards her. "It's sandalwood," she said. Cornelius blushed.

"Guess that answers my question," he said. He paused for a beat. "What's Aegis, Ma'am?"

She didn't look up from the file. "Initiative codeword," she said shortly. "Classified, details are need-to-know and," she looked up and smiled apologetically, "you don't need to know." A very quiet rumble deep in Dredd's throat – Cornelius glanced over at him; his assessor was leaning against the glass, looking in at the perp slumped glumly in his chair. The message was plain as day – _your assessment, your call_.

Cornelius stepped forward, leaned on the table and loomed over Anderson. "I've got joint point on this case, Ma'am," he reminded her softly. "Where's my perp come in?" Very deliberately, her eyes wide with surprise, she closed the file and slid her hips forward, dropping lower in the chair, her feet sticking out between his ankles.

"Are you trying to intimidate me, _John_?" she asked with a broad grin.

He shook his head. "No, Ma'am," he said firmly. "But," he asked, "if I were, would it work?"

She held his eyes in hers for a few seconds – the gold flecks were fascinating, the broad cheekbones lovely framing for them, his chin shaved blue, the uniform laser-level precise. "No," she said. Once again, she brushed her mind against his, pushing in a little deeper this time, probing to see what he knew other people thought about him. "Novak's right," she remarked. She pushed herself back from the table and stood up, turning away and giving him her back.

Cornelius straightened. "I'm tenacious like a robohound?" he asked. She shook her head, but still agreed.

"Yes, but not just that." She looked over her shoulder. "You're handsome, too."

Thick tension in the small room, dense enough to cut with a bootknife. Cornelius narrowed his eyes, took a step towards her. "You flirting with me, Ma'am?" he asked, with a faint air of disgust.

She gave a wicked grin and turned to face him. "No," she assured him. "But, if I were, would it work?"

He folded his arms and set his jaw. "_No_," he said decisively. She held his eyes for a few instants, felt the fire crackle and roil between them; layers of complex dominance and subordination, instinct and training, anger and attraction. She shrugged, raised a single eyebrow.

"At least one of us is lying," was all she said.

"Let's move this along." Dredd's voice was the crack of a whip, the glare that enveloped them both clear even behind his visor. "You wanted my Rookie's perp – why?"

Anderson sighed and was suddenly, instantly, impossibly all-business, her uniform immediately that of a minor divisional chief even though she hadn't clipped a single speck of bronze to her collar. "We're losing the war for this city," she said. "You both know it. I was given an assessment because the Chief Judge thought my . . . _ability_ could make a difference." She looked at both men, hoping they would understand and believe her. "The number of psychic divergences within the city is increasing – significantly."

Cornelius furrowed his brow. "Psychic divergences?" he asked. He glanced at Dredd. "You mean incidents of psychic power use?" Dredd shook his head.

"She means psyker muties, Rookie," he growled, his eyes on Anderson as he spoke. "'Divergence' is the feel-good term these days."

Anderson's face twisted – neither she nor Cornelius were prepared for the pang of pain her discomfort caused him. "Maybe we want to 'feel good' about ourselves, Dredd," she said acidly. She inhaled deeply and mastered herself. She directed her remarks exclusively at Cornelius. "Yes," she said. "Psyker muties in the city."

Cornelius nodded, understanding. "And the Chief Judge is worried about the potential for crime?" he asked.

"Yes," agreed Anderson, "but not just that. Officially, I'm the most powerful psi the Department has encountered – by a huge margin. But it's not just about power – it's about control, the ability to harness it, the ability to not go off the deep end." She turned to the wall, seeming to look straight through it to the city and the Cursed Earth beyond. "There are divergences out there with enough muscle to crush you two like umpty-candy," she explained. "But, a lot of them don't fit together too well." She turned back to them and gave a sickly smile. "Mewling blobs, vestigial limbs, malfunctioning organs – barely make it out of the womb. Pathetic victims of the rad deserts."

"And the concern is that psis without your control and advantages could be a threat, even if they mean no harm?" Cornelius asked. Anderson nodded.

"It's not easy," she told them. "Doing what I do, being what I am. People's thoughts, emotions, feelings – sloshing about, lapping against your mind, leaking inside. This is a crazy city – eight hundred million people? Social structures crumbling more than the infrastructure? Walls, highways, pollution, mile high buildings, crime like a disease?" She shivered and ran her hands over her face, sweeping her hair back. "Grud knows," she hissed through gritted teeth, "it's a good day if I can get through it without flipping the spug out." She rounded on Dredd. "So, cut me some drokking slack when you bring an Adonis to my investigation and I think he's cute!" he yelled.

Stunned silence echoed in the small room for a second, and then Cornelius asked, "Adonis?"

Anderson turned to him and – suddenly, mercurially, calm and happy – grinned. "You like the reference? I am the goddess with the shield, after all," she quipped. The smile came off Cornelius' face like he'd been slapped.

"Stay out of my head," he told her sharply.

"Quit inviting me in," she retorted. She looked meaningfully at him, felt his mental landscape close up, reverting to ingrained patterns of formalized thought. "Better," she said. She sat down on the edge of the table, lifted her coffee cup again. "Chief Judge wants a division to handle it – police them, judge them, recruit from them. She tasked me to head it and assemble it."

"How's it going?" asked Dredd.

She shrugged, sharing a glance that could only be appreciated with the experience of inter-departmental pissing contests. "Politics," she said, as if that explained everything. To Dredd, who nodded, it certainly seemed enough.

"And that's Aegis?" asked Cornelius. "This . . . Psi Division?"

She shook her head. "No, Aegis is something else – codename, classified, compartmentalized." Her voice was deliberately light, dismissive. "But I _do_ like Psi Division," she added with a grin, saying the name as if to test it. "Nice imagination."

He didn't smile. "Trying not to have one right now, Ma'am," he said tightly. "What's my perp got to do with all this? Snot-nosed hypochondriac punk, shifting hyposprays to some Boost dealer – where's your angle?"

She sipped her coffee, leaned back to reach behind her, crossing her ankles as she did so, her uniform tightening. She pulled the metal folder towards her, flipped the file open and extracted a sheet of paper. "It ain't Boost." She handed the report to Cornelius and took another sip. "That's what Control flagged for me – that perp you slabbed, his poison of choice? They call it Jak – it's a Boost variant. Same effects on reflexes and the central nervous system, but it also targets portions of the cerebral cortex. Bottom line?" She hopped off the table and stood in front of Cornelius, proffering him the full file. "It enhances existing psychic ability, perhaps creates it. Unpredictable, unexpected, uncontrolled."

"That's a big problem," said Cornelius. "And you don't know the source?"

Anderson threw up her hands. "We don't even know how it works," she complained. "The effects seem random. We can't get samples to test it – dealers seem to know when it's being bought for the Justice Department. We've busted no major dealers – they always seem one step ahead of us."

"Did you think maybe they're psychic?" suggested Cornelius dryly. Anderson narrowed her eyes and stuck her tongue out like a child.

"So far, your lead's nothing special – we've been here before." She shrugged. "But, I've got to chase everything down. So, now he's sat there and hopefully got nervous," she took the folder from Cornelius, "I'll go talk to him." She slid past Cornelius, moving between him and the table, twisting her hips and shoulders so she didn't brush against him.

Cornelius reached out and caught her by the upper arm, plucking the file from her grasp as he did so. "My collar, my perp, my interrogation," he said. Slowly, she looked down at the massive hand around her slender bicep, roving her gaze up the bulging forearm. She slid the fingers of her free hand around the cuff of the gauntlet, gradually tightening her grip.

"Wow," she breathed, gazing up at him from under heavy lids. His face twisted and his hand flew off her arm like it was electrified. There was a dangerous confidence in her blue eyes as she addressed him. "Joint lead, Rookie – and I'm not only senior, but a division chief." She tapped the side of her head. "And I can get answers easier than you can." She reached out and gripped the top of the file, but Cornelius didn't let go.

"With respect, Ma'am," he said, "you've already told me you had no luck cracking this case. And I think I can get answers easy enough." He gave a self-deprecating shrug. "Besides," he admitted with a glance at Dredd. "I'm on assessment – don't show me up, huh?"

She looked at him for a second or two and then, wordlessly, pursed her lips so she didn't laugh and snapped her fingers open, letting go of the file. She waited for him to move away, but he didn't, instead craning his neck to look over her at the table. "That the real stuff, Ma'am?" he asked. She turned to see what he was looking at – her coffee – and nodded. "May I?" He was already reaching around her, his hand actually encircling her waist. She bent at the hips, pushing her pelvis forward and her shoulders back, her body arching theatrically to keep his arm a chaste six inches from her body. He picked the coffee up. "Thanks," he said, leaving the room with the file in one hand and the presspulp cup in the other.

Anderson spun to face Dredd. "Grud on a greenie!" she exclaimed. "Where'd you find _him_?"

oOo

Aaron lifted himself up in the chair as best he could with manacled wrists and a busted ankle when Cornelius entered. "Thought you'd forgotten about me, man," he complained.

Cornelius shook his head, set the cup on the desk in front of him and reached behind him to undo the cuffs. "Naw, man," he said, helping him sit up. "You and me?" He crossed the first two fingers of his left hand and slapped his chest twice with his right fist. "We're tight. Buddies. I brought you coffee – the real deal, man." He pointed at his ankle. "And sorted some PK for you, right? I hooked you up."

Aaron sipped the coffee experimentally. "J-Dept field dressings are _opioids_ – gotta control that stuff. Can't just slam it in there. Did you check if I had any contraindications? Any potential drug interactions?" He looked angry. "Medicine's serious business, man."

Cornelius sat down opposite him, opened the file and read through the first page for a second or two. He looked up. "And you know medicine?" he asked. "You know this serious business? Is that why you're slipping dispensers to narcopushers?"

Aaron's face twisted. He thrust a finger at Cornelius, pointing to emphasize his point. "I'm providing a _service_, man!" he exclaimed. He got no further before Cornelius, using only his thumb and one finger, caught his wrist and twisted it and him to the surface of the table. "Argh! Drokk it, man, drokk it!" Aaron's cheek was pressed flat, tears and snot mingling with spilled coffee, blowing bubbles through lips compressed against melamine. "You're gonna break my wrist, man!"

"Believe me," said Cornelius calmly, "if I wanted to break your wrist, I'd break your wrist – without so much effort. I know just how much pressure it takes to fracture the carpus and _just_ how much pressure it takes to break _you_." Abruptly, he let go. Aaron struggled back to sitting upright, cradling his bruised wrist. "A service," Cornelius said slowly.

"Yeah, man," said Aaron. "A service. Tweakers out on the streets, gonna shoot up any which way. Disposable hypospray is _hygienic_, man_. _Apepsis, man, _apepsis_." He looked scornful. "You know what that is?"

"It's _asepsis_," said Cornelius. "And, yeah, I do." He laughed. "And that only works if they ain't reusing or sharing them. I'm gonna put a crack in your idealism along with your tarsus – street-tweakers don't follow best practices."

"Hey, man," Aaron exclaimed. "That ain't my fault. And there ain't no law against giving out disposasprays. They ain't regulated, man – you can't prove I had any knowledge of what they were going to be used for." He folded his arms triumphantly. "So, you're gonna let me walk outta here."

Cornelius shrugged. "Well, limp," he remarked. "But . . . yeah." His face fell. "Stomm," he said despondently, "I guess you're right – sorry, man." He stood up, folded the file and walked to the door, opening it. "Nothing illegal about giving out disposasprays unless I can prove you knew they'd be used for narcotics." Aaron grinned and struggled to his feet, limping to the door with as much swagger as he could manage. He was half-way through the doorway before Cornelius remarked. "Oh, one more thing . . ."

Aaron turned, to find Cornelius' steel-trap hand grabbing his shoulder, lifting him off his feet and hurling him back into the room. He crashed into the chair in a sitting position, his momentum sending the metal frame squealing across the rough-poured concrete floor in a shower of sparks. The chair would have tumbled over with him in it, but Cornelius was on top of him in a split second, grabbing him around the throat, lifting and slamming him against the wall. The flimsy metal chair rang and clanged underneath Aaron's dangling feet as he gurgled and struggled for air. "You ain't giving 'em out, _man_!" Cornelius yelled in his face. "You're not running some happy little street clinic giving smears to slidewalkers and cots for tweakers to crash – you're _stealing and selling_. I've got you banged to rights – now give!" Aaron choked and spluttered, blood-tinged saliva drooling from his lips, his face darkening to purple-red. "Who you selling to? Next link in the chain, perp! Roll on him!"

Aaron's eyes were flickering back in his head, his consciousness dimming. With an expert eye, Cornelius relaxed just enough pressure on his carotid artery to prevent him passing out. Aaron gagged and choked, tried to speak but couldn't. Cornelius relaxed his hand more and lowered him to the ground, holding him upright on his useless ankle. A trickle of blood from his skull smeared the wall behind him. "Yeah, yeah," Aaron croaked, "I'll cop to stealing the box of disposasprays, but I don't remember who I sold them to." His bloodied mouth twisted into a smile and craftiness crept into his eyes. "I guess all this cranial trauma had a negative impact on my long-term memory."

Cornelius glared and tightened his fist, lifting Aaron off his feet again. Briefly, he considered just giving up and calling in Anderson – she could sift through his mind like reading a report. He glanced at the mirror, seeing his own reflection staring back at him. The Judge, the implacable enforcer, upholder and embodiment of The Law, a forbidding figure in black and bronze. Aaron was a fragile, already-broken, sniveling wreck that just needed to be pushed a little harder to fall. He didn't need the psi, yet.

He dropped Aaron, who barely stayed upright, grasping at his throat and coughing. "You give," said Cornelius quietly, "or I throw the book. You understand?"

"Can't prove I knew narco, Judge," Aaron croaked, taunting him. "All you can get me for is theft – and a box of those is cheap-as-chips, man." He laughed, and then hacked and coughed, spitting out a bloody glob of sputum. It splattered on the abdominal plates of Cornelius armor. "What can that get me? Ninety days?" He shook his head. "Man, I got a _sister_!" he said urgently. "So, for her sake, I don't remember _nothing_!"

Cornelius dusted his hands off, smoothed his hair, thinking. "Twenty three years, eight months," he said abruptly.

Aaron looked at him with disbelief and horror. "You what, man?" he asked. "You're outta your drokking mind!"

"Twenty three years, eight months," repeated Cornelius. "One hundred forty-four _individual_ disposasprays stolen and sold; ninety days each. You do the math." Delicately, he reached down and dabbed at the spit on his uniform. He lift his gloved fingertip, showed Aaron the blood-flecked saliva, wiped it on his shirt. "Plus, Judge-assault during investigation of crimes with an aggregate sentence of twenty years or more. El-wopped."

Aaron's face showed incomprehension. "El-wopped? What's el-wopped, man?"

"Life," said Cornelius easily. "Without possibility of parole." Aaron gawked. "How old's your sister?" he asked. "Younger, right? Cute as a button? Friendly? She's just beginning to blossom? What's she gonna do with you in the cubes? Make some _new_ friends?"

"Alright!" sobbed Aaron. "Alright! But you've gotta promise me I go down for _one_ count of minor theft and you drokking-well _nail_ this guy, alright? You don't leave any loose ends that my sister can get caught in, okay?"

"You know," said Cornelius, "I think you're gonna be _really_ glad this case landed in my lap. Far as I'm concerned you never opened the _single_ box and you sold it as is to a guy who's not going to see daylight for a very long time. Now," he said icily, "_give_, you snot-nosed punk – before I change my mind."

oOo

Dredd's face was flint. "The Academy, Anderson," he growled. He pushed himself off the window and stepped towards her. "You watch yourself," he warned.

Anderson squared up to her former assessor and partner, hands on her hips. She wasn't the marginal-fail Cadet given a chance to be a Rookie any more, not a Rookie under assessment, a newbie Judge or even his partner. She was a two-year vet with significant experience and the bronze of a division chief. "He's on assessment," she said dismissively. "If he can't handle me, he can't handle the city."

"Not sure I agree," said Dredd. "But I'm not just talking about him – you know the regulations. Fraternization of any kind is discouraged, romantic liaisons strictly prohibited."

Anderson rolled her eyes, stunned. "You thought that was . . . ?" Her voice trailed off. "Do I have to spell this out for you?" she asked. Dredd didn't react and she shook her head in amazement at his obtuseness. "I guess I do. He's a Rookie on assessment. Level two; temporary, probationary, supernumerary. He's got good grades and better genes and Novak gushes over him? He flashes those chocolate-browns at the Chief Judge and she somehow gives him joint lead on _my_ case?" She shook her head again. "Spug you if you think I'm not going to ride him hard – and there's more than one way to do that. He's uncomfortable with me, he's not ready for it. Out there, in the city? There are girls who practically _live_ in the biosculpting parlors, use pheromone sprays like I use painkillers."

"How is the head?" asked Dredd. The sudden concern threw her for a second. Flustered, she brushed it off.

"No worse than any Street Judge's muscles – I'm just whining," she said. "I'm pushing him because he needs to be pushed, and this is one of the ways I can do it."

Dredd was silent for a moment. "That's your story?" he asked, glaring at Anderson. She held for a second, but broke off before she could wither. "It's the one you're sticking to," Dredd realized.

Anderson turned to the table, realized neither her file nor her coffee were there, lifted her hands as if to hook the thumbs into the loops of her armor web, realized that wasn't there either. She drummed her fingers against her thighs and fiddled with her hair. "He's open to me," she said crisply. "Too open. Too trusting."

"He's a Rookie." Dredd didn't quite offer it as an excuse. "And you're a division chief – he's _supposed_ to trust you."

Anderson snorted. "At the Academy, sure. On the streets? Drokk no, and you know it!" she exclaimed. She stepped towards the window, placed her hand on it and looked through at the young man – only a few years her junior, truly – expertly interrogating a perp by precisely following regs. "I have to teach him people are dangerous," she said softly, "that he needs to lock down."

Dredd didn't move, but to Anderson the shift in his mindscape was comforting as a hug, intimate as a kiss and appropriate as a handshake. "You're bitter." It wasn't a question. "Sounds like you're speaking from particular experience."

Anderson shrugged, not looking at him. "Politics," she said shortly. The weight of his concern didn't waver. She turned to him. "I don't want to trouble you with it, Joe."

If Dredd were surprised by her using his first name, he gave no sign. "I'm here to be troubled, Anderson," he said.

She didn't respond, instead turning back to look at Cornelius. She reached to turn the audio on, thought better of it. "He's too open," she repeated. "To me particularly." She glanced at Dredd. "Did I turn his head?" she asked plaintively. "If he can't handle me . . ."

Dredd shrugged. "Maybe," he admitted, "but you play pretty rough and some slidewalker would be nursing more than a bruised ego if she tried it on the street. He can't exactly cold-cock a division chief. And," he added, "you're more than a pretty face." Anderson turned to him, puzzled. "He didn't charm the Chief Judge – he stood his ground, made his case, and sounded a lot like you doing it. He wanted to follow through and make a difference."

"Run deep, not wide," Anderson murmured.

"Yeah," said Dredd slowly – after a year alone, he was unused to her insights. "Got his first choice of deployment – sector 119. Now," Dredd asked, "you tell me – what's he thinking?"

Anderson hung her head. "I'm not a hero," she said. "And I was never in charge of that, it was just my idea." Her generous mouth turned down at the corners. "And that project isn't going all that well," she said glumly.

"Never said you were a hero." Anderson noticed Dredd didn't actually say she wasn't. "He didn't either – but it was your idea. It's your M.O. - maybe his, too. It's not going too well – put a guy like him on the streets, maybe it will."

She snorted. "You think one Judge can make a difference?" she asked scornfully.

Dredd's response was barely a question; "You don't?"

Before she could answer the door opened and Cornelius stepped back in. "I owe you a coffee, Ma'am," he said without preamble. "I've got a target to raid." He held a printout to her – she stepped forward and took it, holding it so Dredd could see too. "Our perp gave up the name of the guy he sold to – got his home address, but I had Control run down his financials. He owns a shop in the atrium of Caledonia – I pulled the drone footage; heat sig doesn't match. It's a front."

"Quick work, Rookie," remarked Dredd. Cornelius shrugged.

"You'll be surprised at the response you get with level eight clearance, Sir," he said dryly. "Tac data is already loaded into our bikes." He addressed Anderson. "Give me the idents of whoever you're sending with us, Ma'am, and I'll get it to them too. I estimate a hour, tops; you'll have prisoners and answers."

Anderson coolly sized him up, glancing at Dredd to see if there was anything she'd missed when she decided there was nothing _he'd_ missed. There wasn't. "Sending with you, Rookie?" she asked. She shook her head. "You can buy me that coffee on the way – I'm coming."

oOo

"Call it, Rookie."

The three of them had stopped just outside the gigantic main door of the Caledonia hab-block, the dirty walls thick with layers of graffiti and hung with blue banners emblazoned with white saltires and flags of cross-hatched color. Inside the door, the scuffed remains of a painted floor mural could be seen – some kind of ugly, spiky plant with a horned horse on either side. In the corner of the atrium a Grud-awful noise wailed – a hairy, red-headed nuisance in a pleated skirt manhandling a collection of pipes attached to a bulging bag.

"If he doesn't have a busking permit it's two years," began Cornelius, "but we're here for the drug bust." He punched up the interior plan of Caledonia. "Presuming there's nothing on the ground that isn't on the map," he said, "there are only two exits – the storefront and a door to the service corridor. I'll crash the front – kick some tables, flash the bronze. I don't want customers to book – could lose a client of the drug operation. I'll hit the door with a glue grenade, secure the storefront, go though into the back." He looked at Dredd. "Can you take the service corridor, Sir? Make sure no-one bails?"

Dredd was conflicted – the plan was solid, a textbook assault – but . . . "You're on assessment, Rookie," he reminded him. "I need eyes on you." He flicked his chin at Anderson. "She can take the back." Cornelius shook his head.

"I'd like her up front with me, Sir," he explained. He turned to Anderson. "You can tell who's packing heat, right, Ma'am?" he asked.

Anderson lifted the lid off her cup and took a generous glug. "This is _really_ good coffee," she remarked. She looked up. "Sure," he said lightly. "Pretty much – I can read guilt, nervousness, hints of intention. Which means we can secure the front quickly so we don't get shot in the back _without_ killing anyone." She looked at Cornelius. "Right, Rookie?" she asked. "That's your plan, huh?"

"You wanted intel, Ma'am?" Cornelius asked. He shrugged. "Slabs don't blab." He reached down and drew his widowmaker from the saddle-holster, shucking one of the magazines and slamming a clip of suppressor rounds in its place. He flipped the shot-selector to that magazine and racked the slide, ejecting the deadly shell and chambering a non-lethal round. "Service corridor is cramped – you might not have enough room to swing a shotgun, but if you can use daystick and stun rounds I'd appreciate it," he said to Dredd. The older lawman looked impassive.

"I can watch him and report, Dredd," Anderson offered.

Dredd tossed his head. "You think he needs it?" he asked. He swung himself off his bike, drawing his lawgiver and deploying his daystick with a wicked _krak!_ "Gimme two minutes to get in place."

oOo

Anderson didn't like to admit it, but the three-feet of the widowmaker shotgun was sometimes too-much of a handful for her to effectively use, especially in the confined space of the storefront. She drew her lawgiver as she and Cornelius strode through the atrium. As they neared the store, the door opened and a customer walked out, a plastic bag of purchases in his hands. Anderson paused briefly, her hand on his shoulder stopping him, her concentration palpable. "Clean," she said, "but quit lying to your wife." She marched past him without another word.

"You scare me," Cornelius with feeling. He reversed his grip on the shotgun, shoving the store door open with the butt and stepping through in one smooth motion.

"Good," said Anderson from behind him. She kicked the door shut, reaching out across the landscapes of the patrons' and clerks' minds. She grabbed the viscosity ordinance from the back of her belt, snapping the chemphial with her thumb and slapping it on the latch of the door. "Blue shirt, your four," she said crisply.

Cornelius took one step back and to his right, turning to place his body between Anderson and the perp she'd flagged. Blue-shirt's hand was barely lifting from his side as Cornelius drove the butt of the shotgun into his throat and jaw, sending him crashing back into a display carousel. As he slumped, the glue grenade detonated with a suppressed _gloop!_, the oxygen-activated epoxy hardening instantly in the air, fusing the door shut. The blue shirt swung open, revealing a greasy white vest stuffed with fat belly and a heavy pistol with a sawn barrel in a shoulder rig. "Concealed and illegally modified weapon," Cornelius said automatically. "Three years."

"Behind the counter," said Anderson. Cornelius raised the shotgun to his shoulder, taking another step so he was once again between her and the target. The proprietor – an attractively-dressed woman with a striking face well-made-up – had her hands under the counter. She'd managed to half-clear the pump-action shotgun before the suppressor round hit her in the chest. The cloud of microcapacitor beads, linked by the net of conducting filaments, expanded from the barrel, enveloping her torso with a crackle of chained lightning. She crashed, twitching, to the ground.

"On your knees!" snapped Cornelius, sweeping his gaze and the barrel of the widowmaker around the room – his height and proximity to Anderson allowed him to move it above her so she didn't impede any line of fire. "Hands on your heads! If you're innocent, all I'm wasting is your time." He looked at Anderson. "We clear, Ma'am?"

She nodded. "I think so." She wasn't expecting the weapon discharge, and flinched from the roar in her ear, painfully audible even though the plugs, as Cornelius fired over her head. She whipped around, to see a thick-set man falling to the ground caught in the electrical net of a suppressor round. "Well, I did say 'pretty much'," she quipped. He had a pistol already drawn and in his now-nerveless fingers. "Thanks." Cornelius nodded, distractedly, his attention on other potential targets unwavering. They were all on the floor, hands on their heads, one child wailing and the mother trying to comfort him without disobeying orders.

Cornelius made a decision, an acceptable risk. "Cuddle him," he told her. He didn't wait for a response, instead sweeping around the counter and into the back of the store, Anderson following in his wake. He found himself in a small stockroom, shelves on the walls, no doors. He shouldered the shotgun, yanked a set of shelves clear one-handed and brought the gun back to bear, switching the shot-selector to the alpha magazine. "Ready?" he asked Anderson.

She demurred. "I'm just observing, Rookie," she reminded him.

"Right," Cornelius agreed. "Observing." He blew out the hinges of the concealed door, barging the cementboard panel with his shoulder as he switched back to suppressor rounds, ramming through into the hidden narcofab behind. "You're all under arrest!" he yelled. "Face down, on the ground! Move, move, _move_!"

The narcofab was typical of such things – a wide-open space filled with a makeshift assembly-line on cheap prefab metal tables, latticework catwalks suspended above. The workers – impoverished-looking lowlives in dirty labcoats with cheap dustmasks over their mouths and noses – screamed and scattered. Cornelius took a single step into the room, spinning around and aiming upwards into the dangerzone of the corner above him. Fluorescent lights flared, neon tubes bursting as the suppressor rounds smashed into them as well as the gunman above. He tumbled off the catwalk, crashing to the floor in a shower of broken glass, other lights shattering sequentially as the shock-current overloaded their capacitors.

Anderson advanced into the room, immediate crouching down behind a solid crate, a two-handed grip on her lawgiver, choosing her targets with care. Three shots put three men, twitching and stunned, on the floor. Cornelius lifted the widowmaker, blasting suppressor rounds into anyone running and not surrendering. He was standing in the open, legs braced, his concentration a solid pillar in Anderson's awareness, the whole tactical situation held perfectly in his head. He chose his shots based on who would be able to fire on him, ignoring those already shell-shocked by his assault.

The workers had, almost to a man, run rather than surrender, trying to exit out the back. Shouts and confusion, bellowed orders from Dredd and the unmistakeable sound of a couple of stun rounds rang out. The workers came stumbling back into to the narcofab, hands on their heads, driven there by Dredd with a few judicious daystick blows.

The room was filling with acrid smoke – the mercury-fume of shattered lights, but also from a fire started where a suppressor round had caught the glass tangle of a narco still. The Judge's visors switched to enhanced vision, Anderson beginning to regret her tendency to leave her helmet at the Hall of Justice. She reached for her goggles and respirator.

The beta magazine of the shotgun ran dry, the weapon automatically cycling to lethal rounds. Cornelius had no desire to kill anyone he didn't have to – he snapped on the safety and slung it over his shoulder, securing it with hidden electromagnets to the carapace plates of his armor web.

At that moment, as he was unarmed and distracted with stowing his weapon, his breathing and vision impaired by smoke and chemicals, a hulking brute of a man burst through a row of boxes, scattering them, and charged him with a roar, barreling into Cornelius like a freight train.

The Judge was tall and solid, but the perp – perhaps an inch shorter – was heavier; a dense core of solid muscle wrapped in a thick layer of fat, a steroid-junkie powerlifter. He was tripped out on something – likely Boost – his pupils pinpricks and his mouth foaming as he bellowed in rage. The impact lifted Cornelius off his feet, the hulk wrapping his ape-like arms around the Judge's chest, charging forward, crashing into tables heedless of impact, smashing through glass and boxes. The intent was clear – slam the Judge into the wall, crush him between brickwork and three-hundred-fifty pounds of fast-moving muscle, wind him, snap ribs, finish him off at his leisure.

Cornelius' left arm was pinned to his side, but his right – where it had been stowing the widowmaker – was free. He tightened his fist and brought his elbow down on the giant's back with tremendous force and a surgically-precise blow. There was an ugly snap; ribs broke, the shoulder separated. The giant didn't feel it – the adrenaline and narcotics roiling through his bloodstream anesthetized him – but no force on earth could keep strength in his arm. It sagged limply, Cornelius slipping from his grasp, getting battered by pounding knees as he fell to the ground.

The Judge twisted, tangling the perp's calves in his boots, wrenching himself upright even as the giant tumbled and faceplanted. Cornelius stood, his bootknife gleaming in his hand, a thin gloss of crimson on the blade. At his feet, the hulk lay face-down, a gradually-spreading lake of blood underneath him. Cornelius bent, wiped his knife clean on the perp's clothes and sheathed it. Breathing heavily, clutching cracked ribs and favoring his untwisted knee, he grabbed the heavy guy by the shoulder and, with an effort, flopped him over onto his back. Ropes of intestines, blue and red and white, spilled from the disemboweling abdomen wound like laundry from a basket. Slowly, his hand on his knee, Cornelius painfully straightened. "Drokk me," he muttered.

"Clear!" Dredd yelled from the back of the room. Behind the crate near the entrance, Anderson scanned what she could see.

"Clear!" she called, leaping up, out of cover, and rushing to offer the limping Cornelius support.

But she'd made an elementary mistake; with a three Judge team, complex interior topography, blocked lines of sight, each should call 'clear' based on what he could see, sweeping the structure room-by-room or zone-by-zone until the commander himself announced 'all clear'. Perhaps it was because hierarchy was ambiguous here – she, a division chief; Dredd, the senior Judge; Cornelius, the Rookie – his assessment, his call.

Regardless of the reason, she exited cover in an uncleared environment, compassion for the battered Rookie driving her forward, holstering her lawgiver as she moved, reaching for her medikit. Cornelius' head whipped around, looking up and to the right. "Ma'am, _down!_" he yelled.

But it was too late – she turned to follow his gaze, her hand fumbling for her pistol, to see a final gunman on a gantry high above pointing a high-powered rifle directly at her heart. Time seemed to slow as he slid his finger onto the trigger and squeezed.

**A/n :** A note on terminology; the movie used the term "psychic" to refer to people with mental powers (and, presumably, as an adjective for those powers themselves). The comics often use "psi" (pronounced like the guy who made the "Gangam Style" song). I've used "psi" as the noun referring to people, "psychic" as the adjective and "psyker" (taken from Warhammer 40K and other sources – appropriate, given the historical links between Games Workshop and 2000AD) as a semi-pejorative noun for psis.

Although it has little (if any) impact on the plot, this story runs over three days – the action opens on March 24th, the next morning (which begins in part III) is March 25th, and the closing scene of part III takes place on March 26th.

You're at the bottom of the screen, where the _review box is!_ Please – so I know what you think, so I can write better stories, stories people want to read – just take a minute or two to type what you thought and hit submit. If you sign it, I'll write back and I will review your stuff – promise!


	2. Aegis (part two)

**A/n :** For detailed author's notes for this story, please see the end. For general notes about my "Dredd" fics, please see my profile.

If you enjoyed this story (and even if you didn't) please review – even if it is just a "good fic / bad fic" review (although more detail is nice). Without reviews, I don't know if I am writing things people want to read, or what needs to be changed or have more of / less of for future stories.

I have a _very_ simple rule – if you leave a review for me, I _will_ leave a review for you. I don't care what sort of stories you write, or even if I am familiar with the fandom – I will leave a review.

**Aegis (Part II)**

The gunman on the gantry high above the floor of the hidden narcofab had Anderson dead in his sights, the high-powered rifle pointing directly at her heart. She was caught flat-footed, fumbling for her pistol. Even if she could clear it in time, the best she could hope for would be their bullets crossing in mid-air. His would still punch her right in the chest, and a rifle that powerful could pierce armor and splatter her heart all over the inside of her ribcage with the right kind of bullet.

She got her hand on her lawgiver, managed a half-draw before a tremendous blow on her right shoulder spun her around. She heard the crack of the rifle, virtually simultaneous with the impact. For an instant, she thought she'd been hit.

Cornelius had dived for her, his left hand extended, his right drawing his lawgiver, stiff-arming her out of the way. She spun with the impact, presenting a narrower profile to the gunman, pushed out of the line of fire. The rifle bullet shrieked supersonic past her face – there was no way she could see it, but she fancied the turbulence whipped her hair. Time seemed to slow and stretch as Cornelius' bicep spurted with a small, almost-neat entry wound and blew out in a fountain of blood, torn flesh and leather on the other side.

Controlled agony from the wound flashed into her mind, the depth of her connection with Cornelius unexpected. She crashed into the crate, started to slide down, and then grunted in winded pain as over two-hundred-and-fifty pounds of Judge, armor and equipment slammed into her, pinning her against the metal. Stars danced in her vision, her gun clattering from numb fingers as her arm went dead and air left her lungs. A second rifle bullet howled past them, missing by inches. On top of her, Cornelius cleared his gun and – gritting his teeth through the pain – lifted it and took five shots.

Only two hit – one punched through a gantry stanchion and the other two went Grud-knows-where – but they were enough. The first smashed the gunman's hand and the butt of the rifle, blowing his fingers apart in a welter of blood and sending shards of plastic into his chest. The second caught him in the side of the neck, ripping his throat and left carotid out in a crimson haze. He pitched backwards, tumbling of the gantry to land in a cartwheel of limbs below. Burning glassware broke his fall – his impact smothered some of the flames, but not enough to stop his clothes and hair catching.

Cornelius shoved himself off Anderson, his blood leaving a smear on her cheek. She slumped to the ground, her forehead scraping against the rough metal of the crate, gasping for breath, her lungs spasming. Cornelius went down on his wrenched knee, fighting back the pain as he holstered his weapon. His left arm hung limply, the ribs on his left side cracked by the hulk and driven further out of alignment by the impact with Anderson. Dredd ran towards them, coming up behind his lawgiver, scanning the room as he moved through it. "Clear!" he shouted.

"Call it!" Cornelius managed to cry out. He'd moved so he loomed over Anderson, shielding her from possible fire with his body. He reached out and ran his hand around the small of her back, lifting her abdomen forward. "Breathe, Ma'am," he hissed, his face screwed up against the pain. "You good?" She drew an agonized breath and managed to nod.

Dredd swept the room one more time. "All clear!" he yelled.

Cornelius gasped in relief and shifted his weight off his injured knee, easing out his wounded leg. Anderson, getting her breath back, reached for her medikit and his gunshot wound, but he shook his head. "Clean and through, Ma'am," he assured her. "More worried about yours." He shifted his hand to her shoulder, sliding his fingers under the eagle pauldron. He probed the muscle and bone with the anatomical-precision of a martial-arts master. "Doesn't feel dislocated or broken, Ma'am," he said. She shook her head, lifting her hand to lie on his.

"Just bruised," she confirmed. For a very short instant, her fingers lingered on his. "Thank you," she said softly. Cornelius nodded and stood, his hand on his knee, his left arm hanging limply, blood dripping to the floor, pain on his face. Anderson struggled to stand upright, reaching out to support him – but before she could Dredd's hand was under her shoulder, jerking her upright.

"Which one of you is the Rookie?" he growled. "You wait 'till he's called all clear!"

Angry and embarrassed, Anderson shook him off. She reached across her body, cradling her wounded shoulder. The speed and weight of Cornelius had told – she couldn't remember the last time she'd been hit that hard. She rotated the joint and massaged the muscle. "So I goofed!" she exclaimed. "Why are _you_ pissed off?" She gestured at Cornelius, who was cutting the leather over his bicep open with his bootknife. "He's the one who got shot!" She turned to him. "Oh, Grud, I'm so sorry."

"He's my Rookie," Dredd told her. He spun her back around to face him, her hair whipping around her incensed face. "You goof, you nearly get both of you killed, and you take him off the streets before his assessment's over? What if I fail him because of you?"

Anderson squared up to him, her hands on her hips and standing every inch of her five-foot-four. "Then you're a drokking fool!" she snapped. "And you know it!"

"Enough." Cornelius's voice was muffled, through gritted teeth, and underlain with pain, but nevertheless calm. Both Dredd and Anderson turned to him, her mouth falling open in amazement.

"What did you say, Rookie?" Dredd growled.

Cornelius had the cap of the biofoam dispenser in his mouth – that was what had muffled his voice and made it sound like he was gritting his teeth. "I said," he turned and spat out the cap, "_enough_." He pressed the dip of the dispenser to the wound and depressed the trigger. Flesh sizzled and seared with the autocauterization. His face twisted with the pain and he flexed his fist once or twice before the anesthetic kicked in. He pulled the anti-inflamatory from his medikit and reached for Anderson's shoulder, lifting the pauldron and slipping the dispenser underneath, stabbing through the uniform. "She goofed, she's sorry. No-one died, no perps escaped." He fired the dispenser, dropping it to the ground and reaching for the cortisone. He bent and stabbed it into his knee, wincing as he hit the trigger. Slowly, he straightened.

"She should know better," Dredd said.

"And she does," said Cornelius. "She made a mistake, I made a _choice_. If you have a problem with what _I_ did, then you're my assessor. But otherwise? I'm acting field commander. My assessment, my call."

Deliberately, Dredd folded his arms, what could be seen of his face an unreadable mask. And then, very slowly, he nodded and the perma-frown of his lips briefly smoothed out. "Yeah," he said. He glanced over at Anderson, sighed and shook his head very slightly. He turned back to Cornelius. "How's the arm?" he asked.

Cornelius flexed the bicep, winced as he did so. "Pain's manageable, Sir," he said. "It's functional – but a lot of the strength's gone." He gingerly touched his side. "I think the ribs are more serious," he admitted.

Dredd glanced down at the bulk of the dead giant. "Big guy," was all he said.

"Yeah," agreed Cornelius. "I'll call for some catch-wagons. Ma'am," he asked Anderson, "can you arrange holding cells and interrogation for them? This lot would normally just go to the cubes, but . . ."

Anderson nodded. "But we need answers. I know. Sure, I'll clear it." She reached up and put a hand on his shoulder. "John," she said – she didn't notice herself using his first name, "you need medical attention." He shook his head.

"The arm'll hold – hard nosed round, clean and through," he assured her. "I'll strap the ribs – the bike medikit's got bandages." She didn't looked convinced. "I'll be fine," he promised.

"Anderson's right, Rookie." Dredd's voice brooked no refusal. "Report to the surgeon for treatment." Cornelius straightened into attention, wincing as he could no longer keep weight off his knee.

"With respect, Sir," he said, "I'd like to finish my assessment."

Dredd looked him up and down. "So would I, Rookie," he said shortly. "I want a full shift out of you. See the medic, go home, rest up. I want you fit tomorrow." He flicked his head at the unconscious gunmen and the kneeling workers. "This is just paperwork and interrogation – don't need to assess that. Hey, division chief." Anderson turned from worrying about Cornelius to face Dredd. "Can you get us some desk jockeys to push the pencils?"

"Sure," she said shortly. "Let me make some calls." She waited until Dredd moved away, pulling a bundle of plasticuffs from his belt and starting to secure the prisoners. "Thanks," she said again.

For a second, it looked like Cornelius might say something – intention hung like a haze in the air to her perception. Eventually, he simply shook his head. "Don't mention it," he said. He pointed above her left eye, at the bloody scrape where she'd slid down the crate. "You might want to get some antibac salve on that, Ma'am," he said.

She reached up distractedly, winced as her fingers touched her forehead. "Oww." She looked at his wound. "Hope the arm's okay," she said. His uniform was cut away from the biceps, the muscle a massive, corded bulge, the entry and exit wounds an unhealthy, angry red with the emergency field dressing. She reached out, almost as if to touch it, sensations felt by her peculiar power and in some place all women shared. He felt her scrutiny and lowered his arm, reaching over to pull the ragged leather to cover his flesh.

"Like I said, Ma'am," he told her, "hard-nosed, clean and through. Nothing serious – medics'll fix me up." She didn't seem to hear him. "You should make those calls, Ma'am," he reminded her. She started.

"Oh!" she exclaimed. "Oh, yes. Yes, thank you." She ran her hand though her hair and turned away, moving to help Dredd secure the prisoners.

Cornelius watched her for a second, telling himself he studied her movements to judge how her shoulder was, and then shook himself and walked to his bike, raising his wrist to call the catch-wagons and book himself into the infirmary.

oOo

The knock at the door wasn't expected, but neither did it startle Cornelius. He lowered the bottle from where he'd just been about to take a swig and set it down on the table table next to his chair, wincing as the movement pained his arm. He glanced at the top corner of his book, memorized the page number, and folded it shut, placing it next to his beer. "Safety off," he said softly to his lawgiver. "Armor piercing." The pistol beeped and cycled as he picked it up from the table.

He walked towards the door, keeping out of any direct line of fire. He did not stand in front of the door, instead leaning out from behind the sturdy bookcase next to the jam. There was a half-inch plate of rolled ballistic steel bolted to the back of the shelving unit, enough to stop most small arms fire. The door itself was solid plastic and steel construction, armor laminated into the framework. He fitted the muzzle of his gun into the port behind the blowout panel and angled the prism so he could see through the peephole without putting his face there.

Anderson's face – the center magnified and the edges compressed – loomed in the fisheye lens. She was in uniform, the ruddy abrasion above her eye shiny with antibacterial jelly. She had a flat, large, square corrugated cardboard box tucked horizontally under her left arm with a plastic bag balanced on the top. As he watched, she leaned back to check the number on the apartment door and knocked again.

Cornelius' shoulders relaxed. "Safety on," he said quietly, reaching up to place the pistol on top of the bookcase. The pistol cycled to quiescence as he stepped out from behind the shelves and unlatched the door, pulling it open. He straightened into attention. "Ma'am," he said curtly.

Anderson's brushstroke brows drew together. "'Ma'am'?" she asked. She sounded almost hurt. "'Ma'am'? After this afternoon? You want I should call you 'Rookie'?"

The muscles at the points of Cornelius' jaw bunched. "You are in uniform, Ma'am," he said reasonably. She grinned, ran her butcher-blue eyes over his body.

"You're not," she pointed out with a smirk.

Although it perhaps didn't seem possible, Cornelius blushed. He'd been discharged from the infirmary, come home, stripped off his uniform, taken a shower and changed his dressings. Now, he was dressed in a pair of shorts and a sleeveless vest – gym clothes, bleached by sweat, worn pale by repeated washings, tight over his slab-like muscles. "I apologize, Ma'am," he said tightly. "I wasn't expecting company. If you can wait, I'll change into something more suitable."

She lifted the box. "Pizza'll get cold," she argued. "And the beer will get warm – took me two tries to find a store that kept it on ice." She smiled gently. "I just came to see how you were, to say thank you. Off duty, no ranks. I should have come in mufti." Her smile widened in a wicked smirk. "But then you might have shot me, right?" she asked mischievously.

He gawked at her. "How did you . . . ?" he asked, but then nodded in realization as she tapped the side of her head.

"Same way I knew your favorite is sosij and double cheese, and that you like Natty Boh," she said. "Do you want to eat it out here, or . . . ?"

He lifted his hand to his face and pressed his fingers against his forehead. "I'm sorry, Ma'am," he exclaimed, embarrassed. "Where are my manners? Please, come in." He stepped back and held the door open wider. She moved inside, but stopped in front of him just inside the doorway.

"Cassandra," she said with a very faint edge. "_Cassandra_. You saved my life." Even with her suited-and-booted, their difference in heights made her have to tilt her head far back to look him in the eyes, her face level with his massive chest. "_Cassandra_. I'll make it an order if I have to," she said, seemingly oblivious to irony.

He smiled. "So long as I'm still a Rookie, only when at least one of us isn't in uniform," he acquiesced. "Deal?"

Anderson nodded, satisfied, and stepped into the room proper, setting the box down on the dining table. She took the six-pack out of the bag, lifted two bottles out and put them next to the pizza. She picked up the rest of the six-pack and faced him. "Fridge?" she asked. He started, moved towards the little kitchenette off the main room, opening a small fridge set into the wall. She put the beer inside, taking a casual inventory of the contents – another four-left six-pack of Natty Boh, a carton of vit-see-skweez, a large box of ecks, a packet of chikin whitemeat slabs, some bell peppers and a punnet of blueberries, still with the hydroponics holograph seals on them. On the counter was a large bag of pasta and a drum of whey protein. She put the beer inside without comment and closed the door. "And when you pass the assessment?" she asked.

He twisted the cap off one of the bottles of beer, held it out to her. His left arm seemed to move without difficulty, although the bicep was bandaged. He had an athletic support compressing his right knee. She couldn't see his ribcage, and didn't want to peer too-much to see if she could discern the outline of dressings under the tight singlet. She took the beer, didn't drink. "_If_ I pass," he assured her, "I'll call you Cassie all day long." She blinked, once, at the shortening of her name, the uniqueness of it, felt the delicious seed of friendship stir, but didn't say a word. He reached down and picked up his already-open beer, offered it toward her for the toast. "Cheers," he said. "To first blood."

They clinked the necks together. "To first blood," she repeated. She took a swig, lowered the bottle thoughtfully. "Was that your first kill?" she asked seriously.

He thought about it for a second, shook his head. "No," he said slowly. "Slabbed some tweaker this morning – he was going for a gun, trying to snatch a girl to use as a hostage." He took a heavy pull at his drink. "Tapped him twice – didn't even think about it, happened all by instinct." He gave a very slight shudder. "Same thing this afternoon." He sighed, ran his hand through his hair. "I was talking about my getting bloodied," he explained.

She nodded. "I know," she said. She looked at him carefully. "How are you doing?"

He moved to the table, opened the box and removed two slices of pizza, folding one over the other and biting off the corner. He chewed thoughtfully for a few moments. "Fine," he said shortly.

She moved towards him, set down her beer and took a slice of pizza. She stood uncomfortably close and maintained eye contact as she bit. "_Liar,_" she whispered.

He stiffened and moved away. "I don't _feel_ anything," he said. "Not regret, not concern, not uncertainty. I did what I've been trained to, what I believe is right, what needed to be done." He shrugged. "I slabbed three perps. I don't feel anything. What am I supposed to feel?"

"Just that," she answered easily.

He looked at her curiously. "So why don't I feel fine?" he asked.

"Because you think you _should_ feel something," she explained. "The Academy has spent a lifetime and thousands of man-hours and millions of credits turning you into what you are – a _Judge_. And now you are that, out there on the streets, being it, living it – and you're worried because you _don't_ worry. You expect to go to pieces, to be racked with guilt, uncertainty, to second-guess your choices. And you don't – and that makes you wonder if . . ."

"If I'm just a cog in the machine," Cornelius finished. She nodded.

"Trust me," she said, "you're not. A Cadet who thinks like that, thinks he's just there to enforce The Law like a robot, gets washed out quickly. You're a _Judge_ – and that's what you do; judge. You decide, you make decisions. The fact you don't second-guess yourself means you made the right ones." He chewed thoughtfully. "What did you say to Dredd?" she asked. "That I made a mistake, but you made a choice."

Cornelius shifted nervously. "I'll be honest," he said, "I thought he was going to fail me right then and there."

Anderson shook her head. "No," she told him. "That was the moment, if there is one, he'll pass you for. Everything else on the assessment is, what? Training, process, procedure, muscle-memory? It's more an assessment of the Academy than you. But then, you judged. And that's what he wants to see and what the city needs – a Judge."

Cornelius nodded, drained his beer and reached for the unopened bottle. "Thank you, Cassie," he said with feeling. "That really helps."

She shrugged. "Don't mention it," she said. "It should be me thanking you – that's why I came around. You saved my life today," she said seriously. "If you hadn't been here . . ."

"If I hadn't been here, you'd have never left cover," Cornelius reminded her. She nodded, accepting the unspoken rebuke.

"I was worried," she said lamely. "You were hurt . . ."

"I was fine!" he exclaimed. "I could have finished out my shift, the doc patched me up in ten minutes."

Anderson colored. "I'm sorry," she said. "I was just . . ." She sighed, reverted to professionalism. "You took an unacceptable risk," she told him. "Push me out of the way, put yourself in the line of fire?" She shook her head, trying to find the words. "There's a fine line between chivalry and chauvinism," she said.

Cornelius stopped with his bottle half-way to his mouth. "You think I did that because . . . ?" He gave a disbelieving laugh. "Oh, drokk no," he assured her. "I did it because you're more valuable than me."

She could feel the reservation, the obfuscation, the tenderness of the budding friendship, the pressure of regulations discouraging fraternization, the complexity of masculine-feminine instincts and relationships, even beneath the genderless shield of the Judges. Gently, she peered at him. "We both know that's not true, John," she said softly.

He stiffened. "Drokk you and your mind games," he muttered. He sighed. "We both know it's not chauvinism," he said. "It's not even chivalry. It's . . . you _are_ more valuable than me."

She smiled mischievously. "And . . . ?" she threw naked into the conversation.

Cornelius looked at her, straightened, set his jaw. "And nothing," he said flatly. "You're more valuable than me." He wasn't sure what annoyed him more – that she didn't seem hurt, or that the look in her eyes told him she knew the truth. Maybe they were the same thing. "You interrogated the perps?" he asked, wanting to change the subject. She nodded.

"Yeah," she said. "Got a lot of good leads – the names of the dealers, most of their major clients. Even some information on rival gangs we didn't have before. Successful op – thanks for including me," she grinned. He chuckled.

"You already ran the follow-up busts?" he asked, trying not to be too obvious about wanting to be on them.

"Yeah," said Anderson, "most of them. Well," she corrected herself, "local Judges did it – area of operations covered a couple of sectors."

"I didn't mean if you flashed the bronze yourself, Cassie," Cornelius clarified. "An op like this is too big to carry in your helmet, I know that."

"Yes," agreed Anderson, "but that isn't why – I'll kick down a door with the best of them, but there was an interesting lead to follow. This was the first Jak narcofab we've been able to successfully raid – probably because we came at it from an odd angle."

"The dispenser my perp had on him," Cornelius said.

Anderson nodded. "Right. Well, I had a hunch – showed your perp's mugshot to the gang leader, and asked about disposasprays."

"See," said Cornelius, "this hasn't sat right with me from the get-go; narcofabs and pushers don't generally worry about providing injectors. If anyone does it, it's dealers. They buy the dope, they cut it, they split it. _Maybe_ they stick a one-shot in a hypo for a newbie, but most of the time they just shift the narco. But 'fabs?" He shook his head. "Not their game."

"But it was this time," said Anderson. "The gang boss said he was approached – someone he didn't know, no gang affiliation he could see, but confident and familiar with the racket – and asked to make a box of disposasprays pre-loaded with Jak. High-quality mix, 'the good spug' he called it. Offered a fair price, down-payment in cash. The gang boss contacted Aaron, bought a box of disposasprays and had his workers assemble them, put them back in the cartons and then back in the crate. Buyer came back a couple of days later to pick up the box. Examined the merch, was satisfied, paid the balance and took the disposasprays away."

"How'd my perp get one then?" asked Cornelius.

Anderson rolled her eyes. "Your perp used to work on the assembly line, packing the dope. Not a cooker – used too heavy, the gang boss said. Made him unreliable." Cornelius nodded.

"That's usually the way it goes," he agreed. "They don't trust tweakers to cook."

"Right," said Anderson. "Anyway, gang boss said he used to 'sample' the wares – used them while he was working. He tossed him out on his ear because of it. I'm guessing he took that disposaspray off the line – just slipped it in his pocket as it went past. Lucky for us," she remarked.

"Yeah," agreed Cornelius. "So what were they for? Samples for giveaway? A party?" Anderson shrugged.

"No idea – gang boss didn't know and didn't ask; professionally incurious. And, believe me," she assured him, "I made sure; scoured his memories down to his first crush. But I don't think either of those is it – the buyer had the narcofab put the dope in the firing mechanism, not the reservoir. At a glance, they'd look normal."

Cornelius looked puzzled. "What for?" he asked. "Some kind of joke?"

Anderson shook her head. "If it is, it ain't funny – Jak's hard, and those weren't kiddy doses. I was thinking maybe blackmail or terrorism."

Cornelius nodded. "Makes sense," he said. "Slip it into the supply, make your demands. Maybe let a few incidents happen, claim responsibility, threaten more."

"Right," agreed Anderson. "So, you can see why I wanted to follow it down. I pulled an image of the buyer from the gang boss' mind and worked with a sketch artist. It was a good-enough likeness for Control to get a hit – Dredd and I raided his apartment about two hours ago."

Cornelius looked at her carefully. "I'm guessing from the lack of joy on your face, that didn't go well," he said.

She gave a wan smile. "You could say that," she agreed. "Someone had got there before us – made an example of him, the blood eagle."

Cornelius raised a single eyebrow. That particular method of torturous death – chopping through the ribs near the spine with a pair of bolt-cutters, pulling the lungs out and flattening them along the back so they looked like wings – was surprisingly common in Mega City One, reserved for gangbangers guilty of a particular transgression. "He was an informant?" he asked.

"I'm guessing so – which makes the whole thing all the more puzzling," Anderson said. "I mean – was he buying for J-Dept, for a sting op or set-up? Was he running rackets for someone else? Or was this his deal? The buy was in cash – but I guess we lucked out there; gang boss remembers paying Aaron for the box of disposasprays from the cash advance, splashed some of the rest around a grind bar that evening. I've got a couple of Streets and the guys from Unsung running that down for me. With luck, we can get the bills' serial numbers – trace the last time they touched a bank." Cornelius nodded, satisfied. The Unsung were Street Judges wounded in the line of duty – usually having lost limbs or eyes, injuries which couldn't be repaired by surgery or cybernetics meaning they could no longer pound the beat. Unable to take the Long Walk into the Cursed Earth to bring The Law to the lawless, and not wanting to lecture at the Academy, they worked in the Hall of Justice running investigations that required expertise, experience and precision, but could be done from a desk with a 'phone and an internet hookup.

"No useful evidence in his apartment," continued Anderson. "He was killed shortly after we raided the narcofab – the body was still warm, only a few hours dead at most. Killers had splashed bleach around, and forensics couldn't turn up anything immediately. I tried for latent psychic impressions but . . ." She shrugged apologetically. "It was pretty horrible, John," she admitted. "So much hated and anger, suffering and pain. The air was painted crimson with it – I . . . I couldn't get anything useful," she finished. She hung her head, not wanting to relive the dreadful moments in that red-splashed torture chamber where a sad little man caught between terrible waring armies, crushed and pulled apart by both, had lived his dull, squalid existence and died his agonizing and impotent death.

She looked up when she felt Cornelius' hand on her arm. "I'm sorry," he said gently. He tapped his empty bottle against hers. "You want another?" he asked. She considered.

"Sure," she said. "Why not?" As he walked to the kitchen she glanced around the apartment – it was small, compact but well-laid out; a main living area with a couch, chair, dining table and bookshelves, doors off it to a bedroom and bathroom, the kitchenette angled on the other side. She moved to the small window – the view was no picture-postcard; she looked out over the spiral road of a highway off-ramp and a dingy strip mall. She studied the pane obliquely, seeing the unmistakeable refraction of laminated bullet-resistant glass. She turned as he came up behind her, offering the beer. She took it, tapping the window with the mouth of her bottle. "This make you feel as uncomfortable as it does me?" It was J-Dept policy to heavily armor Judges' apartments. Cornelius shrugged and took a swig from his Natty Boh.

"It's necessary, I suppose," he said. "It's an open secret where Judges live – all the precautions in the world won't help if I break someone's bone or brother and they decide I need to die. Rifle on the roof over there," he pointed up through the window, "is all it would take. Armored glass gives a little bit more insurance."

She didn't turn to follow his finger, choosing to keep looking at him. "But that's all," she said. "Just a little more."

He shrugged. "There's no certainty, Cassie," he said. "You know that. Faith in technique is our religion. To go up against a perp in gunfight or fight him in the dirt you have to believe that technique, hard training, will see you through." He shrugged. "It isn't true – particularly with guns. You can stack the odds, but, sooner or later, if you get involved in enough firefights, you'll get killed in one."

Anderson shivered, very deliberately moved away from the window. "Well," she said as lightly as she could manage, "aren't you a barrel of laughs?"

He smiled, made a self-deprecating face. "You want I should lie?" he asked. "We both know the risks, we know what happens to Judges, sooner or later. You get cut down or you live to become obsolete. It's what we do until then that matters. We" the taste of his words in her mind told her he was speaking of the Judges as a whole "and you and I in particular," now the self-correction, "fight to make a change, make a difference."

Abruptly, Anderson turned. "John, can I ask you a question?" Cornelius stopped with his beer halfway to his mouth.

"Sure," he said easily. "Shoot."

"Sector 119," she said. "It's a long way from old Baltimore."

He smiled, looked at her carefully. "You guess that from Natty Boh, or did you read my file?" he asked. She remained impassive, her face suddenly-serious. "The department doesn't like to put people too-close to home," he said.

"That doesn't answer my question," she said softly.

"You didn't ask one," he pointed out reasonably. He took a drink and stepped towards her. "You want to know why I'm here?" he asked. "Why I requested sector 119?" He shrugged. "Not because of you, if that's what you're afraid of. I believe in what's being done here. It's little changes, subtle things, a shift in philosophy and policy."

"It's not going too well," she argued.

"Does it anywhere?" he asked rhetorically. "The idea's good – it just needs time to work, people who believe in it." Anderson didn't look entirely convinced. "We can make a difference, Cassie," he assured her. "Change, not maintenance."

She looked at him for a few seconds – he could feel the weight of her heavy gaze. Very deliberately, she drained her beer. "Put your uniform on," she said shortly.

Cornelius looked down at himself, the undisguised planes of his torso, his naked limbs. "I'm sorry," he said. He turned towards his bedroom. "I should have . . ."

She shook her head. "No," she explained. "It's not that – truth be told?" She smirked and pursed her lips very slightly. "I was kind of enjoying the view. But get dressed and come with me," she told him before he could respond. She held her hand out to him. "I've got something to show you."

oOo

The J-Dept zonejumper decelerated abruptly over the landing site, throwing Cornelius and Anderson forward in their restraints. "Five to LZ!" the pilot shouted over the roar of the turbojets. In the seat immediately behind him, Anderson saluted to show she had heard. She glanced over at Cornelius next to her.

If he was awed, unnerved or even impressed by getting to ride in a zonejumper – the small, lightweight, soft-skinned transonic V/STOL used to shuttle senior Judges about the city – he gave no sign. He sat comfortably in the padded acceleration couch, tight strapped and looking out of the tiny window next to him. The journey from sector 119 to the Big Tri 'dust zone, out beyond the Ontario crater and nestled within the Great Rad Lakes, was less than an hour at a significant fraction of Mach 1 – it had almost taken longer to request the zonejumper and drive from Dalton hab-block to the V-TOLpad.

Curious, she reached out and touched the surface of his mind, humbled by what she felt there. The vehicle – the speed, the power, even her authority to casually request one – didn't impress him, but the view of the city below, even intermittent and blurred by their speed and the scudding clouds – did. She basked in the bright core of idealism, pushing through it to see if it were merely a veneer. She was overwhelmed by a sudden feeling of guilt, of being a spoiled princess, when she realized she'd made this journey so many times its wonders no longer amazed her.

From this high up, Mega City One was cold shafts of concrete illuminated by upthrust beams of light, a patchwork quilt of rich gray velvet and silk strewn with a million brilliant jewels. From this high up, it looked civilized, noble, an achievement. Amazing what vertigo could do.

Cornelius turned to her – they'd hardly spoken on the journey; the noise of the drive and the jets had made conversation all-but-impossible, and she would have refused to answer questions (if he'd asked any) after she mounted her bike and told her to stay on her tail. Her jerked a thumb to the rear exit ramp, reaching up and grabbing the rail that ran along the centerline of the ceiling; karabiners rattled on it "We landing," he yelled, "or dropping?"

"You rated?" she shouted back.

He nodded. "'Chute, grav, and rappel."

She rolled her eyes and gave a short laugh. "Of _course_ you are," she muttered. She shook her head. "We land!" she shouted. "I'm a dirt-pounder!"

The roar of the turbojets stepped up to a higher pitch as the vectored exhausts spun and pointed downward, supporting the weight of the aircraft on their columns of scorching gas. The zonejumper slowly descended to the pad, settling with a softly-bumpy landing. The harnesses automatically disengaged as the engines cycled to quiescence. Cornelius shrugged off his restraints and reached for the rail in one smooth movement, pulling himself out of his chair and putting his hand on his lawgiver. He paused, glanced down at Anderson looking at him wonderingly and gave a sheepish grin. "I guess it's deplaning not deploying when it isn't a hostile LZ," he explained.

She stood up, laughing, and nodded. "Also," she remarked, sliding past him – in the confined space of the aisle, there was no way to avoid her body brushing against him; she deliberately suppressed her awareness, not wanting to know if he responded and not wanting to know if he didn't, "ladies first."

Cornelius watched her walk past him. "What were we saying about chauvinism?" he asked.

Anderson reached the door. She turned to face him. "That there was a fine line between that and chivalry," she said. She looked at him for a second, and then flicked her head meaningfully to the control. He laughed and drove the heel of his hand into the button. Hydraulics engaged and door yawned open, angling down into a ramp. Anderson walked easily down it, her hand raised to shield her eyes from the jetwash. "Brufen," she said by way of greeting to the Judge who met her at the bottom of the ramp.

"Judge Anderson, this is a pleasant surprise – come to see how we're getting on?" Brufen was tall and slim, fit but not powerfully-built, with thinning gray hair swept back from his aquiline face. He was wearing justice-blue coveralls, his badge pinned to a tool belt and with an embroidered patch showing Tek insignia on his right shoulder.

Cornelius took all that in at a glance, including the other patch underneath that. He couldn't get a clear look. He walked down the ramp, turning around and to his left so he could flash the salute of airborne – the first two fingers of his left hand against his right temple, twist the wrist to point, and then a short horizontal chop above the eagle on his shoulder. In the impromptu-mirror of the opened canopy, Cornelius could see the pilot in his heavy-visored helmet and ear defenders smile and repeat the same salute.

It was a courtesy and also an excuse – he was now far enough to the left to get a clear look at Brufen's other patch. It showed a stylized J-Dept eagle-shield with oscillating rays coming from its head. Embroidered in the border of the circular patch was "AEGIS DEV TEAM : IT'S THE THOUGHT THAT COUNTS".

If Anderson realized what he was doing, she gave no sign. She shook her head. "Just a social call, Brufen," she assured him. She turned to encompass both men. "This is Judge Cornelius," she said. "John? Tek-Judge Brufen."

Cornelius lifted his head and stepped forward, his hand extended. "Rookie-Judge Cornelius, Sir," he corrected Anderson. They shook hands. "A pleasure, Sir," he said.

"Likewise," said Brufen carefully. He glanced at Anderson.

"I believe we've met before, Sir," said Cornelius. "You lectured some electives at the Academy – materials and aerodynamics."

Brufen furrowed his brow, trying to recall. "Ah, yes – I remember now. You took the hyperplastics course."

"Audited it, Sir." Cornelius was as precise as his uniform. "My schedule didn't allow me to attend enough classes to take the exam. I did read the course materials – extremely enlightening, Sir. Very practical."

"John's the kind of man who attends an anatomy lecture because he's a karate student," glossed Anderson. Brufen smiled politely.

"I'm glad it was useful," he said. "With respect, Judge Anderson, he's here because . . . ?"

She moved to stand next to Cornelius. "My partner," she said shortly. "We're working a case. He's cleared on my authority." There was a very slight edge of steel to her voice, and Brufen demurely gave a very slight nod. "He's also airborne rated," she added obliquely.

Brufen gave a slightly-sickly smile. "Personnel decisions are your prerogative," he said, "but if I might . . ."

"Wait." Cornelius held up a hand to interrupt Brufen. "I'm sorry, Sir, but . . . personnel decisions?" he asked Anderson.

She looked at both men with a faint tinge of annoyance. "We're getting ahead of ourselves," she told them. "Let's go see _Aegis_."

oOo

The Big Tri industrial zone was outside Mega City One proper, beyond the radiation deserts that had been farmland and small town America before WWIII, linked to the city by an armored highway leaving at the Pittsburgh gate. The road was as well-maintained as anything in the Cursed Earth could be, with intermittent and insufficient patrols fending off the attacks from muties and bandits, and perpetual repairs and resurfacing from automated mek-quake 'dozers. Even for heavily-armed and -armored caravans, escorted by corporate solos and mercs, the journey was difficult and dangerous. For this reason, travel for individuals was limited and what little there was usually accomplished via aircraft.

Thus, Big Tri 'dust zone was – while technically part of the city – separate and almost-independent. Massive factories and laboratories, together with company housing, stores and entertainments owned by manufacturing and R&D megacorporations, filled the armored curtain wall. Judicial presence was limited almost to oversight, corporate security providing most of the day-to-day law enforcement in the almost-completely privately owned zone.

The distance from the city gave corporations a degree of latitude, the ability to not only perhaps skirt regulations and even The Law, but also to operate out of sight of prying eyes, developing clandestine projects and proprietary projects in secret. Big Tri 'dust zone wasn't a mass manufacturing hub for proven technologies – it was a high-tech development facility packed with skilled craftsmen, out-of-the-cube thinkers and a few bona fide geniuses straddling the line between eccentricity and insanity.

The V-TOLpad stood immediately outside a stadium-sized hangar with a doomed roof that looked like it would fold back on hydraulics. The LZ's arc lamps were pointed down and in, creating a pool of bright light but not illuminating the night beyond. Here and there, yellow-orange sodium lamps glowed, revealing the general shape of the hangar and an outsize overhead steel door. Brufen led the way to it, lifting his badge so the robot-camera could see it and leaning into an iris-scanner. Red lights flashed to green and the door started to roll up. He glanced behind him, gestured Cornelius forward and stood aside. "Look up," he suggested.

Cornelius glanced at him, but obediently stepped forward, standing in front of the door as it opened, his head angled back. As the door lifted, light spilled out from the well-lit interior, together with the noise and echoing bustle of activity in a large, open space. The floor of the hangar was filled with pre-fab buildings, stacks of materials and crates, and open workshops, all intersected by pathways cut through them. Workers in justice-blue coveralls walked or scootered.

The door opened fully, revealing what the hanger was built to contain. Cornelius was dimly aware of his jaw dropping open and Anderson thrilled to the sudden sense of amazement and awe that engulfed him.

In front of him, supported on a seemingly spiderweb-thin scaffold, was the skeleton of a gigantic airship – elegant in its curves, cigar-shaped, long as an areoball field and tall as a ten story building. What few panels of the envelope's skin were in place were dull silver, stretched over the rigid structure of the balloon. Comparatively small – but objectively large – wings projected from the body fore and aft, ducted lift fans inside them, jet engines projecting from the rear. As-yet-empty weapon hardpoints hung underneath.

The gondola hanging beneath the envelope was about one-fifth its length, so shallow it seemed a mere blip on the smoothly-curved surface. Seen at this distance, compared to the bulk of the ship, the workers bustling around and on it were insignificant dots.

"Wow," said Cornelius. "That's . . . impressive."

Brufen stood beside him, eager and excited himself, mollified by Cornelius' reaction. "That's the _Aegis_," he said. "She's a HULA – hybrid ultra large aircraft. She uses buoyancy along with aerodynamics and rotational thrust to keep aloft – allows her greater speed and maneuverability, as well as better suiting her to payloads." Dully, Cornelius nodded.

"With a standard airship, you offload ten tons, you just gained ten tons of lift," he murmured. He slowly nodded, turned to Brufen. "Your design?" he asked. "Nice work."

Brufen tried not to be obvious about beaming. "Thank you," he said. "Payload is about one hundred tons – significant cargo space within the main envelope, of course, but that isn't pressurized. The gondola has medium-term field-accommodation for six, but will carry five as standard – commander, first officer, pilot, two others – together with grade C or B mobile command facilities; lab, brig, infirmary, washroom, armory." He realized he was babbling. "The usual things you would find in a ground-based mobile command," he explained. "Rear cargo space can function as a hammock dormitory, workshop, drop room, whatever you . . . er, that is, the commander, might like."

Cornelius swept his eyes over the long bulk of the craft. "Weapons and comms?" he asked. Brufen gestured.

"Four triple-beta standard hardpoints on the wings, two double-alphas under the gondala," he said. "Sector-house level communications suite with quarter-meg encryption."

"Nice," Cornelius repeated. He pointed to the top of the craft, just forward of the centerline – there, the struts of the envelope's framework were more numerous, heavy bracing that looked as if it should support something. If there weren't more framing members to be installed, there would be a chunk missing from the smooth, cigar-shaped body of the craft – a wedge sliced from the dorsal surface of the envelope, leaving a flat plane ending in a vertical surface. "What's going there?" he asked.

Brufen glanced at Anderson, as if wanting permission to disclose confidential information. Anderson smiled and answered herself. "The _Manta_'s going there, John," she said obliquely. "Is it available for viewing, Brufen?" she asked.

The Tek-Judge nodded, peering into the vaulted darkness of the hangar roof. "Betancourt should be bringing her in . . ." He smiled as a faint crack of dim blue night appeared in the ceiling of the dome on the far side of the hangar, the clanking noise of the hydraulic roof folding open reaching their ears seconds later. Bright landing lights flared on, sending columns of illumination reaching to the ceiling, revealing a wide aperture in the roof. ". . . Right about now," he finished with a grin. He gestured towards a small electric cart standing nearby. "Shall we?"

oOo

The landing pad on the other side of the hangar was a thick disk of heavily-reinforced concrete, with massive steel petals surrounding it hinged on hydraulics. As the vehicle carrying the three Judges approached the pistons were extended, lifting the panels into a ringing stockade of steel. Upward-angled spotlights at each of the cardinal points of the pad converged on the descending aircraft, lowering itself on the screaming exhaust of its vectored jets.

Conversation was impossible – not only the howl of the engines but also the jetwash coming off the pad, even with the protective ring of steel, saw to that. The three Judges watched – Cornelius in awe, Anderson with pride and Brufen with a critically-precise eye – as the plane deployed landing gear and came to rest on the pad. The engines cycled to silence and the hydraulics collapsed, folding the stockade down into a circular ramp leading off the pad. Workers hurried forward, attaching cables and hoses to the plane and immediately starting post-flight maintenance and analysis.

Cornelius had limited experience of military and J-Dept attack jets – although it was clear that was what the delta-winged craft was. The Justice Department made extensive use of smaller UAVs – drones, as they were commonly known – for reconnaissance and surveillance, and twin-rotor helicopters were the vehicle of choice for aerial transportation and deployments of Judges, but all of those were subsonic craft. The zonejumper was the closest thing to the _Manta_ he'd seen, but the transonic shuttles were smaller, clearly less technically sophisticated, and far less attractive.

For there was no doubt the _Manta_ was a beautiful vehicle as well as a stunning piece of engineering. It was about fifty feet from nose to tail with a wingspan of sixty. The control surfaces slid and settled, sinking into the body of the flying wing, and intake nozzles retracted into the knife-sharp leading edge, irises closing over them and panels moving into place to hide them. The end result was a wedge-nosed delta-winged plane, shield-shaped in plan with a perfectly curved, seamless dorsal surface. The _Manta_ was painted featureless gray, each articulation or separation edge marked with yellow-and-black hazard stripes.

As Cornelius watched the canopy lifted and slid back on a central rail. Workers hurried forward with a specialized ladder, but the figure in the rust-red quilted flightsuit didn't wait for it. He heaved himself out of the cockpit, sat on and slid down the smooth surface of the wing, hitting the landing pad with an easy flex of his knees. He reached up and unbuckled the chinstrap, lifting the oversized helmet off his head. He handed it to one of the maintenance crew and raised his hand to Brufen. "Ramscram three is juddering at the transition from super to hyper," he called. "She wants to yaw starboard."

Brufen nodded. "That's a materials issue – we should have replaced the fans in tandem. But she's handling better at low speeds?"

The pilot strode down the ramps, hand-combing his dark hair out of helmet-head back into its attractive side parting. "Yeah, like a dream," he said. "The new control software's much better, and I'm getting faster response from the vectored exhausts." He noticed Anderson. "Hey, Cass!" he exclaimed. "Didn't know you were coming – I'd have taken you for a spin if I'd known!" He turned to Brufen. "Why didn't you tell me she was visiting?" he asked.

Anderson hugged the pilot in a friendly embrace as he fairly jumped off the ramps. He was short and slight, only a few inches taller than her, with youthful mannerisms and expression belied by the fine wrinkles around his gray eyes. "Impromptu visit, Nick," she said, disengaging and turning him to face Cornelius. "John?" she began by way of introduction. "Wing Commander Nicolai Betancourt, NAAF, veteran of the South Asian conflict. He's the pilot for _Aegis_ and _Manta_. Nick, this is Judge John Cornelius, my partner."

Betancourt had a broad and infectious grin that showed most of his teeth and made friendly humor dance in his eyes. He thrust out a slender, attenuated hand. "Good to meet you," he said with eager sincerity. He jerked a thumb back towards _Manta_. "What do you think of her?" he asked. "Can Brufy sling rivets or what?" The Tek-Judge gave a faint shudder of annoyance even as he swelled with pride.

"Rookie-Judge." Cornelius corrected Anderson for the second time that evening as he shook Betancourt's hand. "And we've got joint-point on a single case. But, yes – very impressive. I'm no expert on planes, but she's beautiful. You said she's hypersonic?" Betancourt nodded, moving to stand with his shoulder against Cornelius' biceps so he could gesture at the plane.

"I've got her up to about Mach six," he said with his infectious grin, "but once the kinks are worked Brufy promises a cruise of five and a short-burst of around seven or eight. I believe him," he added sincerely. "Incredibly stable airframe – marvelous design. Vectored turbofans for sub- and transonic operations and _true_ V-TOL, four variable ramscrams for super- and hypersonic flight. Port and starboard beta-beta hardpoints, and a centerline alpha in the nose." He looked up at Cornelius, weighing up what the Judge would find interesting, and laid a hand on his shoulder, pointing to the rear of the _Manta_. "Here's what I think you'll really dig, though," he said. "Payload in the rear, ventral bomb-bay doors. It'll take an ordinance rack, of course, or you could use it for cargo – but it's meant for airborne drops. Space for five infantry, freefall or rappel, or two lawmasters on gravs. With her speed and range, and the V-TOL . . ." He let his voice trail off, wanting the Judge to confirm it.

Cornelius nodded. "And she can pack the weapons to secure the LZ – stick a minigun and a bomblet dispenser on each wing and you could drop a squad into the middle of a block war without Judicial casualties. Very, very nice." He turned away from the _Manta_ to look down at Betancourt. "Thanks for your service, by the way," he said seriously.

Betancourt shrugged, a little thrown by the sudden mention of it. "Cass always brings up SoAz," he said dismissively. "That was a long time ago." Suddenly, his eyes were opaque and distant. "I was flying traffic 'copters for Channel Nine until they tapped me for this." Mega City One involvement in south Asia had officially ended five years before; an unpopular conflict many had disgustedly called a proxy war. Betancourt was maybe ten years older than Cornelius, and the Judge silently calculated and filed away this man's meteoric rise through the ranks of the North American Air Force. "But, thanks – means a lot. You're welcome."

Cornelius turned back to the plane. "It really is a beautiful design – the way it all comes together into that perfect curve? It's going to look like a shield on the nose." Betancourt turned to Brufen with a big grin on his face.

"See?" he crowed. "See? He gets it!" He spun back to Cornelius. "He's all about aerodynamics, which – believe me – I'm sympathetic to. But the aesthetics?" He drifted his hands through space, following the dorsal curve of the _Manta_ the way another man would describe the waist, hips and thighs of a voluptuous beauty. He shook his head. "So simple, so beautiful. And when we're ready for final hull coatings?" He looked up at Cornelius and tapped his badge with a fingertip.

"Painted with the eagle?" Cornelius asked. "So _Aegis_ carries a badge." Betancourt nodded. "Nice," Cornelius said with feeling. "Really, really nice. Flash the bronze."

"Flash the bronze," repeated Betancourt slowly. "Flash the bronze." He weighed the phrase in his head. "I like that," he said eventually. He turned to Brufen. "See?" he said. "He understands psychological warfare."

Brufen's face didn't crack, but Anderson couldn't help but smile. "The visibility of a symbol of the Justice Department and the resultant psychological effects were considered when deciding on the aesthetics of the combined aerial platform," he said dryly. "I was aware the appearance would positively impact _Aegis'_ ability to fulfill her mission. And this isn't _warfare_, Betancourt," he reminded the pilot. "This is _law enforcement_."

"In this city," remarked Cornelius, "it's all the same thing."

Betancourt nodded judiciously, turning to Anderson and jerking his thumb to indicate Cornelius. "I like this guy, Cass," he said simply. Anderson, who had been enjoying both the camaraderie between the men and Brufen's growing distaste at it, smiled gently.

"A lot of us do, Nick," was all she said.

If Cornelius had any reaction to her words, he gave no sign. "So _Manta_ docks on _Aegis_." He lifted his chin to Brufen. "A combined aerial platform designed to accomplish a particular mission?" he asked. Brufen nodded. "Which is _what_?" he asked abruptly. He turned to Anderson. "You've got a medium-term, grade C-plus mobile command facility with a unique operational theater, alpha-plus firepower, carrying a hypersonic air-superiority fighter with semi-squad assault capabilities. What's a clandestine division using it for?"

Anderson blinked and gave a half-smile. "Are you sure you haven't read the conception-document?" she asked. His face didn't shift. She sighed. "Look," she explained, "I don't like the term 'clandestine division' – Aegis is a covert project because it's under development; that's why we're out here in Big Tri. But my department?" She shook her head. "You're looking at precisely _half_ the actual Judicial staff of Psi Division – I've got auxiliaries like Nick, but any other Judges are seconded or even leveraged. There aren't any psis out there who are reliable, Judge material." She squirmed uncomfortably. "The Academy might allow leniency for justified reasons when it comes to passing grades," she admitted, "but the Chief Judge isn't going to let us lower entry requirements to bolster the ranks."

"So why _Aegis_?" asked Cornelius.

"To do my job, which is to police a genre of crime across the whole city, my limited staff need a mobile command center with unique capabilities," explained Anderson. "Brufen floated the design for _Aegis_ about two years ago – the Council approved it, initially slated for SJS' use. But then I came along, and my division's particular problems and needs became clear. Chief Judge approved the transfer of _Aegis_ to my division."

Cornelius nodded. "Hence, 'politics'," he realized. She nodded.

"DCJ Cal is a good man," she said, referring to the head of the Special Judicial Service and Deputy Chief Judge. "Originally, he wanted me in SJS – thought my skills could be useful for internal affairs."

"They still could," Cornelius said.

"Agreed," Anderson nodded, "and when we have recruited more psis, some of them will definitely be attached there. He supported the Chief Judge in giving me my assignment, even allowed the transfer of _Aegis_ when it became clear I needed it. But, not everyone in SJS is entirely happy, nor trusting."

"You have an SJS observer attached to your crew," Cornelius realized.

Anderson nodded. "Rawne," she said sourly. "My first officer."

Cornelius felt he had to come to the defense of his fellow Tutor. "He's a good man, Cassie," he said.

"He's good with a blade, and he's good at sticking it where it's not wanted – like in your back," she snapped. "He's IA, not Street. He's more interested in taking down Judges than perps."

"Well, that's SJS," said Cornelius, lamely. She glared at him. "Alright, it's a bad fit," he admitted. He turned back to look at _Aegis_ itself at the other end of the hanger. "So, the ship's got a crew of five," he said. He indicated Anderson. "Commander, pilot" he pointed at Betancourt "Rawne as XO . . ." His eyes narrowed suspiciously. "Who are you thinking for the other two slots?" he asked. Anderson grinned, but it was Brufen who spoke.

"During the initial shakedown cruise, which begins in five months – that is classified, by the way," he added. "During the shakedown, I will be assigned to the _Aegis_ as technical observer."

Cornelius nodded. "That still leaves one slot," he said meaningfully.

"Oh, it ain't you," Anderson said. She sounded both disappointed and amused. She sighed. "I was just wishlisting."

"So, who is it?" asked Cornelius.

Anderson smiled brightly, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "Why," she exclaimed, "the other half of Psi Division – let's go meet her!"

oOo

Anderson lifted her hand to knock on the door of the pre-fab building set against the hangar wall, but before she could a voice called from within. "Come in!" Whoever it was sounded young, eager, not sleepy. "It's unlocked." Anderson glanced over her shoulder at Cornelius and shrugged.

"Glad to see it weirds you out, too," he said dryly. She made a face and pushed the door open, stepping into the small room beyond.

"Jackie?" she said, peering around the door. Cornelius was behind her, looking into the dorm. The rack was against the far wall, the bedclothes tussled and a mess. There were posters taped to the wall – sheets of glossy paper unfolded from the centers of music magazines. They showed KT-pop stars; pretty young girls in bright summer dresses flashing peace signs and hooking their hands into claws, biosculpted to varying degrees with cat ears, slitted pupils and even tails and whiskered noses. There was a desk under the window, strewn with textbooks and pads, the pages filled with loopy notes and not-a-few doodles. "I thought you'd be asleep."

"Duh!" exclaimed the voice. "I knew you were coming." Anderson chuckled and stepped into the room proper, beckoning Cornelius to come around the door. "And I knew you'd have company – so I even got dressed." Cornelius stepped into the room. "Oh!" the girl sitting cross-legged on the floor exclaimed, her hand flying to her mouth. "Oh, _wow_! I mean, hi!" She winced and jumped to her feet. "I mean, _Sir, yes Sir_!" she managed, stiffening into nervous attention.

Cornelius only glanced at her for an instant, before deliberately closing his eyes and turning away. She was a medium-teen, about fifteen, a little short for her age. She was barefoot and – despite what she'd told Anderson – barely dressed, wearing only an oversized J-Dept T-shirt that came about a third of the way down her thighs. She was very pretty, with long red hair bright as new copper wiring, a sensual pursed mouth more appropriate to a woman ten years her senior and brilliant green eyes. She still carried a little bit of puppy fat, but her undisguised figure had started to blossom years earlier and it was obvious it would inevitably develop into a devastating and distracting hourglass. Slowly, a thick lock of hair flopped forward from where she'd pushed it quickly back, hiding half her face. She didn't move, but exhaled sharply, trying to blow it clear.

"Seems like being underdressed for senior officers is a theme today," he remarked dryly. There was a pair of jeans lying discarded on the floor. He picked them up and – without looking at her – pushed his arm behind him and offered them to her. She grabbed them with a hurried thank you.

Flustered, she bent over and stepped into the jeans, jumping to jerk them over her wide hips. Anderson looked at her, embarrassed because of and for her, making exasperated gestures with her hands. The girl buttoned the jeans and tucked in the T-shirt. Anderson shook her head, wagged her finger and silently mouthed, "Oh, no!", reaching forward to pull the material out a little so it wasn't so tight and low over her chest. The girl brushed Anderson's hands off, pouting and folding her arms. Anderson glared at her for a second, and then her eyes softened and she smiled, smoothing her hair out for her and helping make her more presentable. "John," she said, "may I present . . ." Cornelius turned around, ". . . Cadet Jacqueline Quartermain. Jackie, Judge . . ." She sighed and bowed to the inevitable; "_Rookie_-Judge John Cornelius."

Cornelius held out his hand, Quartermain took and shook it. "My pleasure, Cadet," he said.

"Oh!" Quartermain exclaimed. "Mine too, yes." She smiled, swept back her hair with her free hand, realized she was still holding his in her other and let go abruptly. "I've seen your name on the electives list at the Academy – you teach advanced hand-to-hand, right?"

"Jackie splits her time," Anderson explained. "The Academy can't give her the training she needs in her particular talents." Quartermain nodded.

"But if I'd have known it was you I'd get thrown about by," she assured Cornelius. "I would have _defo_ signed up." She put her head on one side and scratched behind her neck nervously. "Do you . . . do you give private lessons?"

"Cadet!" snapped Anderson, aghast. Quartermain snapped to attention as Anderson turned to Cornelius. "I am _so _sorry . . ." she began, but the look on Cornelius' face stopped her.

"Is this a thing all psis do?" he asked pointedly. "Is it supposed to throw me off my game?" Anderson colored very slightly but didn't say a word. "It might work – quit doing it. So, Jackie," Quartermain managed to suppress her smile so well only the most hard-nosed drill Tutor would have called it breaking attention, "you're the other half of Psi Division?"

Quartermain glanced over at Anderson. "_Psi Division_?" she asked. "Did we get divisional recognition?" Anderson's expression said everything the younger woman needed to know. Her sensual mouth turned down at the corners. "Pity," she remarked. "I guess you could say that," she told Cornelius. "I'm only a Cadet, of course. Justice Department . . . _recruited_ me when my abilities started manifesting. That was around the time of my first . . . that is, they started developing when I did . . ." She blushed, her voice trailing off.

Cornelius nodded. "I understand," he said gently. "So, you're not an orphan?" Most Judges were – regulations allowed the Justice Department to take custody of any orphans who passed the aptitude tests. In the perpetual gang-war of crime-ridden Mega City One there was never a shortage of dead parents. "Nor a volunteer?" he added carefully.

Quartermain shook her head. "No," she said. Suddenly, she was emotionless. "My parents live in old Boston, I haven't seen them in a while." It was impossible to tell what her opinion about that might be – it was a fact, merely reported.

Cornelius closed his eyes and bit the inside of his lip at the sudden withdrawal of this vibrant young woman. "Family?" he asked. "Brothers, sisters?"

She looked up at him. "Just brothers," she said. "Back in Boston," she added, with a faint smile and a glance at Anderson.

Cornelius looked over at the older psi, smiling as he saw the light in her eyes and the flash of connection. "So," he said, "you're psychic like Cassie?"

Quartermain shook her head. "Cass . . . _andra_ is a telepath – she can read minds, project thoughts, communicate clearly to someone open to it. I'm a precog." She shrugged, raised her eyebrows. "A pretty good one," she clarified.

Cornelius showed her empty hands. "Precog?" he asked.

Wordlessly, Quartermain beckoned him over to where she had been sitting when they came in – a deck of cards was strewn on the floor in a complicated patience pattern. She crossed her ankles and sank to the floor with the untutored flexibility of youth, sitting tailor-style. She gathered the cards together, expertly stacked them with her soft hands, and held the deck out to Cornelius. "Shuffle them," she said. "Don't let me see." Cornelius took them from her and she closed her eyes, looked away and even covered her face with her hands. Somewhat awkwardly with his gloves, he shuffled the cards and offered them back to her.

She turned as he was still moving, taking them and laying them in her left hand. She breathed in, visibly centered herself, and started to deal the cards. She made four little piles in front of her, placing cards on them without any apparent order. Once, she broke off to hand a card to Cornelius, indicating he should take it and not look. She took one herself, leaving it in her lap, and gave one to Anderson. When she'd dealt all the cards she reached forward and flipped the four piles over, one after the other.

The deck was sorted by suit. She gestured at the two cards in their hands. Cornelius looked – he was holding the Jack of Spades. Anderson showed him the Queen of Hearts. Jackie grinned and clapped her hands, pleased with herself, and flipped over the card in her lap. The Joker looked back at them.

"Cute," said Cornelius with a smile, "but I've seen bunkos on the street do that." She gathered the cards on the floor back into her hand and fixed him with a serious stare.

"If they can do that the _way_ I do that," she said, "we'll recruit them." He reached down and offered her his card – she didn't take it. "You know the spades are the swords of a soldier?" she explained to him.

He nodded, pushed the card into the deck and offered her his hand. She took it and he pulled her upright – she bounced as she did, flicking her hair with the joy of youth. "I'd have expected King, though," he said.

Anderson snorted. "Don't get ideas," she said with a grin, "you're only a Rookie."

"So," asked Cornelius, ignoring Anderson, "if I'm thinking of a card . . ." Quartermain shook her head.

"No," she said. "You're thinking of what _she_ can do. I can't tell you what you're thinking – I can tell you what's going to happen . . . most of the time," she clarified. Anderson fixed her with a look. "Some of the time," she admitted. "Occasionally, if I'm lucky, with practice." Anderson's gaze didn't let up. She stamped her foot. "I do good work, boss!" she exclaimed. "Ok, so the cards are a bit of a gimmick, but . . ."

Anderson put her hand on the younger woman's shoulder. "You do very good work, Jackie," she told her. "I know that and so does everyone I talk to." She turned to Cornelius. "A lot of it is visions, fleeting sensations. Sometimes, she has dreams – pretty bad ones."

Quartermain straightened, affecting an airy look of not being bothered. "No biggie," she said. Cornelius looked at her bed – there was a well-worn and obviously tightly-squeezed plush kitten next to the pillow. Quartermain noticed his scrutiny and fairly dived for the bed, grabbing the stufty and throwing it under the blanket. She turned back to face them. "You should go," she said urgently.

"I didn't mean . . ." began Cornelius, but Anderson shook her head.

"No, it's not that," she said darkly. "Jackie?"

She trembled, sank down onto the edge of the bed, pawing under the blanket for her stuffed kitten. "I don't know," she quavered, looking down blankly at the floor "Something . . . bad's about to happen," she said vaguely. She looked up. "You should go," she repeated urgently.

Anderson shook her head. "Ain't how it works, Jackie," she reminded her. She showed her the Queen of Hearts. "I got your back, remember?" Jackie smiled, nodded with tears in her eyes. Anderson jerked her thumb at Cornelius. "And him?" she asked. "He was _made_ for bad about to happen."

Quartermain looked over at Cornelius, trying to look confident and at ease. The older Judge shrugged modestly, and then looked down at his hip, puzzled. His lawgiver and Anderson's had just beeped, making a noise they didn't know. Cornelius drew his weapon, read the report on the display. He holstered it instantly, reaching for his daystick.

"SJS override," he said shortly. He drew the collapsible baton, didn't deploy it. Anderson glanced at her own gun, nodded to confirm.

Quartermain had the kitten held in both hands under her chin, worrying the fake-fur with trembling fingers. "What's that mean?" she asked.

"SJS have digital override for lawgivers," Cornelius explained. "So when they come to arrest Judges, they don't get into a shooting match."

"Oh, Grud!" exclaimed Quartermain. "Judge Anderson," she said pleadingly, "I _swear_ I didn't do _anything_ . . ."

Anderson started for her, compassion obvious even to a non-psi. "Oh, Jackie, I know," she assured her. "I'm sure this is just . . ."

She got no further before the door crashed open and two burly SJS Judges in riot armor and their grim skull-visors barged in and glanced around the room. "Secure her," one of them said, pointing at Quartermain as he stepped towards Anderson. On the bed, Quartermain shrieked and scuttled back as the SJS Judge clamped a black-gloved hand on her wrist.

Cornelius deployed his daystick with a flick and brought it down sharply on the SJS Judge's forearm, snapping the bone with a crack. The SJS-Judge screamed, his arm flopping and fingers hanging limp. Quartermain wrenched herself free and scurried off the bed as Cornelius reversed his grip so the baton lay along his forearm. The SJS Judge snatched a taser from his belt with his other hand, pressed the activation stud, and stabbed at Cornelius' exposed neck.

A simple forearm block and he shoved the weapon aside and down, pinning the SJS Judge's wrist against the edge of the desk with the daystick's forked handle. Cornelius twisted the weapon to disarm him, then elbow-smashed the tip of the baton into the center of his chest. His torso armor plates protected him from a cracked sternum, but the impact was enough to send him stumbling back, falling over and off the desk in a stunned tangle of limbs.

Quartermain had run behind Anderson, seeking her protection, but the SJS Judge approaching them didn't seem to care. He pulled cuffs from his belt and reached for her wrist. "Judge Cassandra Anderson . . ." he began.

He got no further before Cornelius whipped the daystick around his neck, hooking it between the padded collar and cheek guards of the helmet. His forearms were crossed, one hand on each end of the baton to apply constricting pressure. The SJS Judge choked and coughed, dragged backwards and onto his tiptoes. Cornelius put his knee in his back and – his face twisting as his wounds pained him – lifted the SJS Judge, shoved his legs out from under him and dropped him unceremoniously to the floor.

The SJS Judge grasped at the daystick, trying to take the pressure off his windpipe, and reached for his own lawgiver – the SJS override was calibrated to only work on non-SJS weapons within range. Cornelius kicked his hand away and stomped down; the SJS Judge grunted in pain as his his trigger finger was broken.

Suddenly, Cornelius felt the unmistakeable cold presence of a gun barrel behind his right ear. "Drop him," said a calm, confident voice Cornelius recognized. "You are interfering with a SJS arrest, assaulting SJS officers. Drop him and walk away – this is your first, final and only warning."

Cornelius looked up at Anderson – she looked terrified, Quartermain worse, but he couldn't be sure if the fear was for them, or him. He locked eyes with Anderson. She gave the most subtle shake of her head.

He closed his eyes, sighed deeply, and – with a final squeeze applied to the SJS Judge's windpipe – relaxed his grip and let him go. He stepped back and lifted his hands, the daystick dangling harmlessly, turning to face the man with the gun on him. He stared unblinkingly down the barrel of a lawgiver, his eyes focused on the face beyond it. "Tutor Rawne," he said easily, as if he had met the man in the faculty lounge.

Rawne's very face was a blade – harsh and aquiline, with a thin mouth like a knife wound. Long-healed scars – stark white against the pale flesh and gray five-o'clock shadow, puckering the skin around them – writhed down the left side of his face, pulling the corners of his lips into a slight sneer or contemptuous smirk. His hair was iron gray, slicked back from a receding hairline, gleaming like oiled steel. "This isn't the Academy, _Rookie_ Cornelius," he said, "and you are interfering with an SJS arrest."

"Am I under arrest, Judge Rawne?" Cornelius asked. Rawne shook his head.

"No," he said. "Not yet," he clarified.

"Then kindly lower the gun," Cornelius said icily. "Regulations are very clear – you don't point a gun at a fellow Judge unless you need to."

Rawne's fragmentary-sneer stretched into the full thing. "_Need to_, Rookie?" he snorted. "You're damn lucky I didn't slab you without warning – you just took out two SJS personnel."

"Afraid I'll make it three without the gun, Rawne?" asked Cornelius. Rawne immediate snapped the lawgiver down and thrust it into its holster.

"Watch your mouth, _Rookie_," hissed Rawne, chest-to-chest with Cornelius, his face inches from his. "You think you're all that? You wanna go 'round with me? Assaulting an SJS officer is a _crime_."

Cornelius rolled his neck and looked away. "We've gone around before," he reminded Rawne, "what would it prove?" Despite marking Rawne a couple of times, when the men had met on the mat – each time with simulated knives – it had been Cornelius who'd come away the loser. Rawne smiled, nodded confidently. "And your man laid hands on a Judicial-Cadet," Cornelius continued. "Didn't place her under arrest. Not a Tutor instructing or disciplining. That's _assault_. And, if she _is_ being placed under arrest, regulations require a Tutor-advocate be present for her – normally, her homeroom Tutor. Now, that's not you, that's not me, and it certainly isn't Judge Anderson."

Rawne glanced down at his two officers lying on the floor – the choked one was struggling to his feet, coughing and clutching at his throat. The other looked unconscious. "Get him up, you idiot," Rawne hissed. He turned back to Cornelius. "I'll let this slide because of professional courtesy to a fellow Tutor and because I don't want to tarnish your otherwise exemplary record," he said through gritted teeth. "But let me give you a very short lesson in practical law – it may serve a hot-head like you well. On paper, The Law is one thing. Out here, when it comes to Judicial misconduct, the SJS _are_ The Law. Do I make myself clear?"

Slowly, Cornelius looked Rawne dead in the eyes – they were a pale, watery blue. He held them until Rawne looked away. "Crystal, Sir." Rawne smiled and turned to Anderson. Quartermain was standing in front of her, her fists clenched and her jaw locked, her face staring with a dreadful mixture of fear and anger at the SJS Judge. Gently, Anderson put a hand on her shoulder and moved her aside. Cornelius came to stand behind the Cadet, his hand on her shoulder, silently accepting responsibility for her as Anderson stepped forward and put her hands on her hips.

"Let's hear it, Rawne," she said.

Rawne smiled. "Defiant to the last," he remarked. "I'm sure you know why I'm here, although I'm equally sure you didn't share it with the others. Unsung investigation revealed the source of the funds used to purchase the disposasprays loaded with Jak – a discretionary account for the Aegis project; you are the only signee. And the hypos themselves have been found – some of them, at least. Now," he asked with a humorless grin, "where do you supposed they are?"

Anderson rolled her eyes. "Get on with it, Rawne – there's no-one here to impress."

"Oh, but I think there is," hissed Rawne. Behind him, the choked SJS man had woken his battered colleague up and the two of them were standing, wavering and much worse for wear. Were it not for the guns at their hips and the fact Cornelius had already as much said he couldn't take Rawne, Anderson felt they could definitely have fought their way out. But what good would that do? Then, they would be all be fugitives and criminals, and there would be more crimes on her charge sheet. Better to let it fall on her, and Rawne would let her people go. "Young, impressionable minds fresh from the Academy?" he asked. "I think it is _terribly_ important they see what you did, how your eagerness for personal advancement destroyed a promising career." He turned to face Cornelius and Quartermain. "She planted the loaded hypos in Judges' lockers and medikits, hoping to use the drug to unlock psychic potential in order to justify her assignment and increase her importance and command. Forgetting – or, more likely, not caring – about the danger posed by the lethal narcotic." He looked at Anderson with scorn. "This, Cadet Quartermain, is the woman you idolize – your affection was always inappropriate, but now I hope you see precisely _why_."

Quartermain gave a cry and started forward. "No!" she shouted. "No! It's not fair! She didn't do _anything_!" Cornelius caught her and held her back – she would likely have flown at Rawne, and Grud only knew what he would have done to her. She struggled in Cornelius grasp. "She didn't do it!" she yelled at him. "Let me go! It's a drokking _lie_!"

Rawne spun to face her. "Watch your mouth, Cadet," he snapped, jabbing a finger in her face. "I'm giving you _extreme_ latitude because of your youth and the lack of deportment your record shows, but if you accuse a senior officer of lying once more I will bring you up on a charge." Her green gaze was poison. "Do you understand, Cadet?" he asked.

"She understands," said Cornelius quickly. She whipped her head to look at him, rage transfiguring her features. "You can't help her like this, Jackie," Cornelius said gently. "They win this round." Wordlessly, Quartermain glared at Rawne and then crossed her arms, staring holes in him. If he noticed it, he gave no sign.

"Your dual assignment is over, Cadet," Rawne announced. "You will report to the Academy of Law for your regularly scheduled class at oh-nine-hundred tomorrow, and will attend classes according to the assigned timetable from then on. You will return to your room in the dorm and remain there." He looked up at Cornelius. "I will hold you responsible for ensuring Cadet Quartermain returns to the Academy, Rookie," he said. "You will return to your assessor and finish your assessment." He allowed himself a very thin smile with no warmth behind it. "Give my best to Joe, will you?"

"I will ensure Cadet Quartermain's safety, _Sir,_" said Cornelius. He paused and looked over at Anderson, tight lipped, very composed, but with disgust and fear written on every line of her face. Cornelius closed his eyes and held a single thought of trust, assurance and determination in his head.

Anderson smiled – the lovely, wide smile he remembered from that morning – and turned to face him. "Thank you, John," she said simply. "Chin up, Jackie," she told the Cadet. "We'll go see Kitty Purry when I get out." She lifted her wrists and offered them to Rawne. "Do your duty, Judge," she said acidly.

For a very slight moment, there was hesitation in Rawne's eyes. And then he reached for his cuffs, snapping them on her wrists without resistance. "Judge Cassandra Anderson," he said simply, "I arrest you in the name of The Law." He grabbed her shoulder and pushed her in front of him, marching her out of the room followed by the two SJS Judges. Quartermain started after her.

"You mean that about Kitty?" she called. "We'll really do that?"

Anderson turned her head. "You tell me," she said softly over her shoulder.

Quartermain closed her eyes, breathing in deeply and perceptibly centering herself. Her face worked with a visible struggle, and then collapsed into sadness. "I don't know," she whispered. She opened her eyes and looked towards the door, but Anderson and the SJS were gone. She sobbed and buried her face in her hands. "I don't know!" she whimpered.

Cornelius crouched in front of her, put his hands on her shoulders. "I do," he said. On his hip, his lawgiver beeped as it came back online. Slowly, she lifted her head and wiped her eyes. With an effort, she stiffened into attention.

"What do we do now, Sir?" she asked plaintively.

**A/n :** The _Aegis_ is based on the Walrus HULA platform DARPA was working on around 2010. You can read about it on the internet – very interesting. The _Manta_ is inspired by modern vertical take off / landing aircraft such as the classic Harrier, as well as the Manta Prowl Tank from the comics. Judge Brufen's name (although not personality) is taken from the designer of the tank in the comics. Deputy Chief-Judge Cal is – of course – taken from the famous "Day The Law Died" comic series – although he's specifically said to be a good guy here. The location of the Big Tri 'dust zone can easily be guessed – modern-day Detroit, a manufacturing hub on the shores of the Great Lakes, and dominated by the big three car manufacturers (GM, Chrysler, and Ford).

If you have enjoyed this story, hated this story, read this story, whatever – please leave a review. Without reviews, I have no idea if what I am writing is appreciated. The box is _right there_! Just type what you thought and submit :)


	3. Aegis (part three)

**A/n :** For detailed author's notes for this story, please see the end. For general notes about my "Dredd" fics, please see my profile.

If you enjoyed this story (and even if you didn't) please review – even if it is just a "good fic / bad fic" review (although more detail is nice). Without reviews, I don't know if I am writing things people want to read, or what needs to be changed or have more of / less of for future stories.

I have a _very_ simple rule – if you leave a review for me, I _will_ leave a review for you. I don't care what sort of stories you write, or even if I am familiar with the fandom – I will leave a review.

**Aegis (part III)**

The knife blade rattled against the stainless steel of the sink, shaking the soap and bristles off in the water. The Judge raised the blade to his throat, pulled down the skin of his neck and scraped upwards. He swished the blade clean and lifted it again, looking in the mirror. The dark eyes with golden flecks that stared back at him looked tired and worried.

"They said I'd find you here, Rookie."

Cornelius scraped again and only then turned to the door of the washroom, to see Dredd standing there. "Sir," he said crisply. "I believe my shift begins in eight minutes. The surgeon just verified me fit for duty." He pointed with the soapy knife at a half-sheet of paper scribbled with the indecipherable hieroglyphs of the Medi-Teks by the side of the sink.

Dredd didn't even glance at the doctor's note, instead examining his Rookie carefully. Cornelius' hair was damp and slicked back, and steam still rose from the floor of one of the shower cubicles. He was naked except for dog tags and dressings – an athletic support around his right knee, a bandage on his left biceps, the unmistakable outlines of bone staples visible under the gauze wrapping his ribs. His uniform jacket hung on his daystick, itself suspended on a hook by his cuffs next to his duty belt. His pants were thrown over one of the stall partitions, his armor web on the floor next to his boots. "You always shave with a bootknife?" Dredd asked.

Cornelius shrugged. "It's sharp enough, Sir," he said. Dredd nodded.

"I'll guess you are too," he rumbled, "I got your report." He stepped into the room proper, closed the door behind him and glanced about – they were alone. "You can talk without slitting your throat?" he asked. Cornelius nodded. "Then we talk – what do you think this is?"

"Permission to speak freely, Sir?" Cornelius asked. He didn't wait for a response. "I think it's an SJS frame-up – even _if_ Cassie . . . Judge Anderson, were running some narco scheme to boost the number of psis to give her division more clout, why'd she chase the evidence down? She could have buried it. Makes no sense."

"Make any sense as a frame-up?" asked Dredd. "Or are you just pissed Rawne got the drop on you?"

Cornelius' hands stopped moving for a second. "He'd disabled my gun, _Sir_," he said through gritted teeth. He turned to Dredd, assuming a faint air of Academy Tutor. "There are four working defenses from that position," he said coldly. "I'm not a drokking idiot, I expected a third man." Dredd didn't react. Cornelius sighed and turned back to the mirror. "I'm sorry, Sir," he said sincerely, "I'm tired and I'm pissed off."

Dredd didn't seem offended. "Welcome to the Judges," he said without humor. Cornelius still smiled, accepting the rebuke.

"Yes, I think it makes sense as a frame-up," he said. "SJS could certainly have planted the evidence – they've got intelligence and files on _everyone_, spytech and informers everywhere. They wanted _Aegis_ for their own projects – watching us, most likely. They also wanted Anderson for IA – presumably any other psis, too. They take her out of the picture and _Aegis_ defaults to them, along with anyone else the Department finds. Even scattering those dispensers around would help them – Judges use them and flip out into jacked-up psykers? SJS could use that as an excuse for tighter scrutiny."

Dredd nodded. "Department's on the look-out now; all personnel advised of make, model and serial numbers – but damage has already been done."

Cornelius sighed. "How many incidents?" he asked.

"About twenty so far," said Dredd. "The majority noticed the narco immediately, of course – got themselves to the doc. But some didn't. There was a brawl in the cafeteria – one hospitalized, no other serious injuries. Couple of Judges on patrol got hit hard – perps robbing a bank got away clean. Senior Cadet called Corey spazzed out in class yesterday – took it pretty bad, she's in ICU. Docs think she might be a latent psi – Jak did a number on her."

The omission was obvious in Dredd's litany. "And?" asked Cornelius.

"And a Judge cut loose with rapid fire in Monroe Plaza," said Dredd grimly. "Screaming about worms in his brain, yelling at citizens, calling them demons. SJS sniper took him down – but not before he killed twelve and wounded fifteen."

Cornelius glanced at Dredd. "The narco messed up his aim?" he asked. "I don't mean to be callous, Sir, but . . . only twenty-seven tags? Given the usual response time for an SJS containment team, I'd have expected . . ."

"SJS were already there, Rookie," said Dredd flatly.

Cornelius lowered his knife. "So they _knew_ he was going to wig out," he said. "Dispensers weren't scattered – they were _planted_. Take down specific Judges, ones SJS see as a threat."

Dredd nodded. "Catch." He tossed something to Cornelius, who fumbled to snatch it out of the air with his left hand. He turned the hypospray over in his fingers, examined it carefully.

"Where the drokk . . . ?" he began.

"My locker," answered Dredd. "Prescribed some pain meds a couple of weeks ago – haven't needed them. But thought I'd check. Same serial number, and same narco in the firing mechanism. Reviewed the security footage – there's a 'malfunction' day before yesterday." Cornelius nodded.

"SJS could override your locker combination," he said, "and stop the cameras."

"Or a psi could pull it out of my head and play mindgames to get some tek to flip," Dredd pointed out.

Cornelius had scraped the last of the soap from his jaw and rinsed the knife – he almost didn't realize he was still holding it as he spun around to face Dredd. "You think she did it?" he asked.

"I think it's my job to suspect everyone," Dredd said noncommittally.

"Even Anderson?" Cornelius asked, shocked. "For Grud's sake, Sir! She was your Rookie, your partner for a _year_! You think _she'd_ target you?She saved your drokking _life_!"

"She's also my friend." Dredd admitted it so easily it shocked Cornelius almost as much as a slap across the face. "But she ain't your Rookie, you're barely partners and you saved hers – so, tell me, why're you so upset?"

Cornelius stared at Dredd for a second, and then very deliberately turned back to the sink, washed his knife again and dried it fastidiously. He splashed water on his face and dried his cheeks and jaw. "Alright," he said, tearing open a fresh packet of uniform shorts and undershirt and putting them on, "SJS is specifically targeting Judges . . ."

"You want some advice, Rookie?" Dredd asked abruptly. Cornelius glanced at Dredd as he put on his pants.

"Always, Sir," he said seriously. He reached for his uniform jacket, pulling it over his powerful arms and broad shoulders, wincing a little as it passed over his ribs. He looked at Dredd patiently as he zipped the leather and reached for his boots.

"You can't convince me you don't care," Dredd told him. "You certainly can't convince Anderson. But you _can_ convince yourself. Here's the advice." He looked around again, as if checking once more to see they were alone. "_Don't._"

There was silence between the two Judges for a few moments, and then Cornelius nodded. "Yeah," he said briefly. "Thank you, Sir." He picked up his armor web and strapped himself into it. "SJS are targeting specific personnel," he said. He stepped into his boots, bending and grabbing the heel to pull them on, snapping the buckles one by one. "They'd have access to psych profiles, know who would spug out, maybe even know this Corey was latent. Gives them the perfect excuse to come down hard, and to demand greater oversight of psis." He picked up his bootknife, examined it a final time, and sheathed it. He strapped on his duty belt and started to gather and check his gear.

"If that's true," said Dredd carefully, "it's more than just Rawne framing her so he gets a nice balloon to ride around in. Can't run a frame like this yourself. Planting those dispensers, hiding the paper trail, lockouts on the buy." He paused and put his head on one side. "You thinking what I'm thinking, Rookie?" he asked.

Cornelius suppressed his grin – Dredd was still assessing. "Rawne burned the nark?" he asked. He shrugged. "Would make sense. All he'd need to do would be tip off the local gang – they'd follow through, tie up his loose ends. We should run that down."

Dredd nodded, changed the subject. "How come Rawne didn't arrest you, Rookie?" he asked. "You ragged two of his men."

Cornelius shrugged. "A combination of things, I think," he said. "Like I told him; SJS laid hands on a Cadet without formal charges – we know they do what they like, but that could have made things sticky for him. And they folded pretty quickly – he wouldn't want that getting out. And, maybe some professional courtesy – we're both Tutors, remember."

"Hmm." Dredd didn't question reasons he didn't appreciate – he just acknowledged and moved on. "Where's the Cadet now?"

"Catching some Zs in a crash-cot – she was slagged, Sir. She's got class starting in" he looked at his chronometer "thirty-four minutes. I'll guess she's turning over right about now."

Dredd nodded. "Rawne wanted her back at the Academy?"

"Yeah," said Cornelius. "And, frankly, I agree – she needs stability. The whole back-and-forth thing doesn't work. She should either get field-training as a psi, or be at the Academy full-time."

Dredd nodded judiciously. "Seems a shame to waste a talent, though," he remarked evenly.

Cornelius ran a hand through his damp hair, mussing it into its natural crew cut. "So what's the plan?" he asked.

Dredd shook his head. "You tell me, Rookie," he said. "Your assessment, your call, remember?"

Cornelius looked at him with something approaching amazement. "Sir?" he asked. "You really want to do this? SJS corruption, Cassie's life on the line, tech like the _Aegis_ up for grabs, and you want a Rookie on Assessment to call the shots?"

Dredd stepped towards him, standing face-to-visor inches apart. "You know anyone better?" he growled. "Or do you want to sit this one out, go back to the Academy, let Anderson rot?"

Cornelius straightened and narrowed his eyes. "You have to ask?" he said tightly.

Dredd shrugged. "Apparently," he said simply.

Cornelius stared into Dredd's visor for a few seconds and then nodded and turned away. "Rawne's got this all sewn up – he's no fool. SJS have taken over the investigation – the report from Unsung is locked down with them." He thought for a second. "We need to follow the money, ourselves – see what Unsung missed."

"Or what Rawne planted," Dredd added. Cornelius nodded, happy his mentor seemed certain of Anderson's innocence.

"Then," he continued, "we run deep on that nark in Telegraph – find out who cut the 'eagle, who shotcalled it, and how they knew he was dirty."

Dredd nodded. "Simple enough," he said. "Local gangs don't hide responsibility – they wanna be seen." He thought for a moment. "But none of this 'then' spug, Rookie," he said. "SJS work fast, we need to too. We split – I'll run down the gang, you chase the cash. Maybe go via the Academy," he added meaningfully.

Cornelius gave a slow smile and a knowing nod. "Best place to learn something," he remarked.

The corner of Dredd's perma-frown twitched. "Heh," he grunted.

"Stay safe," said Cornelius, "that's a bad block." Dredd didn't acknowledge the concern and Cornelius was irrationally embarrassed about having offered it. He snapped to quick attention and dipped his head, moving out of the washroom, but Dredd's voice stopped him.

"You know where Rawne got those scars, Rookie?" he asked. Cornelius turned at the door.

"No, Sir," he said. "I mean – they're obviously knife wounds, but where he got them?" He shrugged. "No idea."

"Rawne was a couple of years ahead of me at the Academy," said Dredd. "Did like you do – taught the younger Cadets while he was there. Real good with knives. Anyway, about a month after my Assessment we end up on the same case – he was chasing the gambling, I was chasing the murder."

"Same tiger, different tails," said Cornelius. Dredd nodded.

"Right. So we run down the perp – he'd slashed someone up after they called him a cheat, handy with a blade. We get him cornered in an alley, nowhere to run. I've got him dead in my sights, but Rawne's the senior man – collar's his."

"What went wrong?" asked Cornelius. "Rawne goes to cuff him and missed the knife in the frisk?" Dredd shook his head.

"No," he said. "Our perp brandishes the blade, calls us out and Rawne steps up. Took off his duty belt, got off the bike, drew his bootknife. Marched down the alley like Marion-drokking-Morrison."

"Idiot," said Cornelius dismissively. "But he won, right?" he asked. "Perp tags him but he comes out on top."

Dredd shook his head. "No," he said shortly. "They were both pretty carved up, but Rawne came out worse. There are more scars than you can see. I shot the perp – saved Rawne's life. He transferred to SJS shortly afterward."

"Why are you telling me this, Sir?" Cornelius asked. "There's always someone better; I know that. Stack the odds, never take the risk – but even then you can end up slabbed. I was telling Cassie . . . Judge Anderson that last night. I told _you_ – spug like that's why I carry a gun." He acknowledged his assessor's generosity. "I know you're trying help me – and you are – but I _do_ know this, Sir."

"I think Rawne still doesn't," Dredd said shortly.

oOo

Quartermain hadn't really woken up when her alarm had gone off – not deep-down where it counted. The night before had been too-full, the transonic flight too-loud to nap, the gnawing worry too-much to let her sleep. Her shower had given her brief minutes of full-consciousness, but she'd slipped back into a waking doze soon enough. She'd not left enough time for breakfast, and she'd be drokked if she was going to drink the dorm refectory's sythi-caf (being on a level eight clandestine project headed by a real coffee junkie had spoiled her). She all-but-stumbled through the corridors of the Academy, her green eyes heavy-lidded and her red hair hanging limp.

She woke up when the Tutor's daystick whacked her across the front of the shoulders, none-too-gently. She pulled up short, her movement into the classroom arrested. "Owww!" she complained, rubbing her collar bones. "What'd I do?"

Novak, handling the collapsible tactical baton with the same casual ease academic Tutors handled a pen, reversed her grip and ran the handle down the list of names on her clipboard. "I don't see you enrolled in this class, Cadet," she said simply. "You're on a free period."

"What?" Quartermain exclaimed. "Ma'am, I don't understand – Tutor Rawne ordered me here. I've been enrolled for the whole semester; I just had authorized absences."

Novak shrugged. "I don't see your name, Cadet," she said again. "Free period."

Quartermain stood on tip-toes and peered at the clipboard. She pointed. "There I am, Ma'am," she said helpfully. "Quartermain, Jacqueline F."

The Tutor sighed and rolled her eyes. "I don't see your name, Cadet," she repeated. She turned, looking at her meaningfully. "Free. _Period._" Suddenly, the credit-chip dropped.

"Oh!" exclaimed Quartermain. "Right, free period. Yes, Ma'am." She glanced at the other Cadets moving into the classroom. "Er, Ma'am . . . ?" she began. Novak dropped her hand to her side, let the daystick slide through her grip so she was holding it by the tip. She lifted it and hooked the forked handle around Quartermain's jaw and turned her head to the side, indicating the Judge at the other end of the hallway. "Yes, Ma'am," said Quartermain crisply, already moving away. "Thank you, Ma'am."

"Do you want to help Cassie?" Cornelius asked without preamble as Quartermain approached him. The Cadet didn't even stop to think.

"Yes, Sir," she said without hesitation. "More than anything in the world."

Cornelius nodded, seemed to consider. "I've got to warn you – this'll put you at odds with SJS, you'll probably have to . . ."

Quartermain surprised them both by interrupting him. "Sir," she said flatly, "I just disobeyed a direct order from a Tutor and the SJS. I know I'm going straight back to Boston if I'm _lucky_. Otherwise, it's by way of a cube."

Cornelius considered this, didn't disagree. "If you don't want to . . ." he began.

"I _said_ I wanted to," Quartermain reminded him firmly. "Now, what's the play?" The vacillation and uncertainty was clear on Cornelius' face. "Put me in the game, Sir," she begged. "Don't bench me – I couldn't stand it if something happened to Cassandra." Cornelius nodded.

"I think the cash for the buy came from an SJS account," he said. "Somewhere along the line, Rawne doctored the evidence."

Quartermain considered. "Do you think maybe Unsung just lied, Sir?" she asked. Cornelius shook his head.

"No – too obvious, too easy to disprove when this goes to trial," he said. "The bank's records were altered, or an unauthorized withdrawal was made from the Aegis account. That leaves a paper trail – you're going to track that down. Rawne's at SJS this morning – I need you to go through his computer here at the Academy; he wouldn't do any of this through SJS. There are too-many checks, too-many eyes watching it – they're suspicious even of themselves."

"But if SJS are in on it . . ." Quartermain didn't sound convinced.

"No," explained Cornelius, "they can't all be. I'm sure they're happy to get oversight of psis and access to _Aegis_, but they wouldn't do it this way. DCJ would have their guts for garters if he knew."

"Why don't we go to him?" asked Quartermain.

"With _what_?" pointed out Cornelius reasonably. "We've got nothing – which is why you're going to go through Rawne's office and see what you can dig up. Here." He reached into a pouch on his belt and pulled out a civilian communicator. He handed it to her. "It's encrypted – nothing special, eavesdropping could break it in a second, but that's not the point. SJS have ears on J-comms, but not civ and there's too much chatter to scan all of it. I've got one too, and I've already programmed my ident into yours. When you get something, buzz me."

Quartermain weighed the dark-blue communicator in her hand. She tucked it into the pocket of her pale blue Cadet uniform, wondering if the cheap, flimsy plastic enclosing third-rate Sino-Cit circuits would be the nearest she ever got to true justice-blue. "What makes you think I can access a Tutor's files?" she asked casually.

Cornelius looked at her with one eyebrow raised. "Really, Cadet?" he asked with a smirk. "Care to explain your 83% in robbery law last semester?" Quartermain at least had the grace to blush and look down, her right foot en pointe and twisting nervously.

"Would you believe study?" she asked. He gave a very short laugh. She looked up, determination written on her pretty face. "Alright," she said. "Got it." A cleft of confusion appeared between her eyebrows. "What are you going to do?" she asked.

Cornelius shrugged. "What Judges do," he said shortly. "Hit the streets, flash the bronze."

oOo

Dredd had been right – it had been simple enough to find the gang who'd killed the informant. Years on the street had given him more than split-second reaction times, iron toughness and weary cynicism that went to the bone – he could read people like the headlines on a news sheet. It had taken him a few moments in the atrium of Telegraph to locate a young single mother, pushing a baby in a carriage and with another babe-in-arms and a child following behind, who he knew would angry and bitter enough about the gangs to give up their open-secrets if she could be promised they were going down hard.

That promise had been easy enough to make, and Dredd easy enough for the young woman to trust. And so it was only a few minutes later Dredd found himself outside the local gang's flophouse, his back to the wall, reaching out to silently attach breaching charges to the door. He'd encountered three patrolling sentries – easily identifiable by the blue crosses tattooed on their pock-marked faces – taking each one out with a couple of judicious blows. The ravaged flesh suggested they were using Spark; likely that was the major source of the gang's income. As he drew his lawgiver and primed himself for the assault, counting down the seconds until the explosives went off, Dredd made a mental note to follow up with any perps that might be left alive, extracting the details of their racket and the location of any narcofabs, busting and raiding them, taking the supply and dealers off the streets.

_Drokking Rookie's idealism's getting to you, Joe,_ he thought. _You're too old for that kind of spug._

As it always did, a heightened awareness swept over Dredd in the last few instants before the charges exploded – they were set to detonate simultaneously, but he half-fancied the one on the upper hinge went off a fraction of a microsecond before the others, the door cut from the frame unevenly and propelled forward with a slight spin. Dredd swung around the doorframe, his lawgiver held in two hands, moving through the seemingly slow-moving smoke from the explosives, fragments of metal and wood spinning lazily in his vision.

The smells of a gang flophouse came to his nose in waves – the sweet sharpness of alcohol, the rich burn of tobacco, the acrid harshness of Spark, human filth and the funk of sex-sweat. He took the first two shots before they were aware of him, two gangers tumbling to the ground, blood bursting from their wounds. He stepped into the room, spun to look behind him, blew a fist-sized hole in the chest of a ganger lounging in an armchair with a matte-black rifle across his knees.

He turned back, kicking over a table and crouching to take advantage of the impromptu cover. Bottles and glasses of liquor flew into the air, being shattered by the return fire from the gangers before they hit the ground. Dredd came up, his lawgiver spitting death, cutting the perps down in a hail of gunfire.

A tremendous blow hit him in the gut, the bullet caught by the abdominal plates, but the impact hard as a punch. He doubled over, rolling to the floor and coming up with his elbow in the throat of another ganger, firing twice single-handed. A shot caromed off his shoulder armor. He twisted with the impact, facing the gunman, bringing his lawgiver up and putting a bullet square into his chest.

The gunman slumped backwards, his contents of his thoracic cavity blown out through his spine, splattered against the wall. He slid down, leaving crimson smears on the dirty paint. Behind him, the sprayed chunks of lungs looked like wings.

Dredd took an instant inventory of the carnage – there were ten gangers dead-or-dying on the floor, four unarmed and unharmed sitting shocked on chairs or sofas, half-a-dozen partially clad young girls – sixteen years old _max_ – scattered about, slender hands in front of gaudily-painted mouths in horror. One ganger was reaching for a weapon, bleeding heavily from a gut shot. Dredd took one step forward and put a bullet into the back of his head, splattering his brains on the floor.

"Not another move, Judge!" Dredd turned to see a bulky ganger manhandling one of the girls on a couch, her lank blonde hair wrapped around his fist. His torso and arms were cross-hatched with blue tattoos, flexing with the untrained muscle of youth. He was wearing a pair of jeans and nothing else, the girl in scraps of black lace. He held a butcher's knife her throat. She struggled as much as she dared. He pressed the knife harder and she stilled. "Now," the ganger said, "you're gonna walk out of here and . . ."

Dredd glanced at the girl, saw the look in her eyes. He holstered his lawgiver and nodded at her. "Go right ahead," he said.

"What the drokk . . . ?" the ganger began, but got no further before the girl's elbow crashed into his groin, driving a high-pitched scream out of him and doubling him over in agony. The girl wrenched herself free and scurried to the other end of the sofa as Dredd lunged forward, grabbing the ganger's knife hand, crushing and twisting. He screamed and sobbed as a gristly noise came from his wrist and fingers. Dredd wrenched the knife free and drove it into the surface of the table. It remained there, stuck by the point, upright and quivering, while Dredd cuffed him.

He turned to the other three gangers – now was the dangerous moment, the time when he didn't have surprise and shock on his side, when he had to get close to them to cuff them. It would be so much easier to simply shoot them, but The Law didn't allow him that ease, nor would his own conscience. Better to take the risk – even the bullet – than stoop to become what you beheld.

One of the gangers slid his eyes sideways, betraying something behind him. Dredd turned, drawing his pistol as he did so, firing from the hip to put a bullet through a girl's stomach before she could pull the trigger on the derringer hidden in the cushions. He swept the room once more, turned back to the gangers and cuffed them, kicking their knees out so they knelt on the floor.

Slumped in the chair, the girl he'd shot gasped and clutched her stomach. One of the others wailed and started for her, but Dredd caught her by the shoulder and threw her back. "Leave her," he ordered. "She'll hold until the medics get here." He flicked his gun – the girls were probably Spark-heads, turning tricks to pay for their habit, hanging out with the gang for street cred, hopefully cowed by their sister's injury, but it paid to be sure. "Over there," he growled. "On your knees, hands behind your heads, foreheads on the wall. Move." Quivering and terrified, the girls complied.

Dredd swept the carnage of the room one last time, then holstered his lawgiver. The ganger on the sofa was moaning, unable with his hands cuffed behind him to even clutch at his wounded crotch. Dredd grabbed him by the throat, lifting him off the couch. "I'm guessing from the way you hide behind a hooker," Dredd reasoned, "you're the shotcaller, right? You're the boss, the big dog?" The ganger gurgled. "Thought so. Stoolie on twenty-seven, got 'eagled. Talk to me."

The ganger struggled, his throat and lips working. He gathered saliva in his mouth and spat in Dredd's face. Sputum dripped slowly down Dredd's helmet. "I ain't copping to nothing, Judge," he said. "What can you get me on? A little narco? Can't even prove I knew these girls were underage." He gave a spug-slurping grin.

Dredd held him for a second or two and then let go, sending him falling back onto the couch. "Yeah," he growled, turning to jerk the knife from the tabletop. He stepped around the couch and tapped the feisty girl on the shoulder. "Get up," he told her, helping her to her feet. She stared at him in fear, and then amazement as he put the knife in her hand. Dredd moved back in front of the couch, and started to walk towards the doorway. "I guess you're right," he admitted. He started to leave.

The ganger looked back over his shoulder, seeing the rage-transfigured face of the teen whose body and tears he'd been enjoying for the last few hours, not to mention the knife in her hands. "Hey, man!" he exclaimed. "Where you going?"

Dredd turned back. "Outside," he said vaguely. "Paperwork, you know?"

"But . . . but!" the ganger stammered. "You're leaving her here! With a _knife_!"

Dredd nodded. "Yeah," he said, "and your balls."

oOo

Mega City One never really stopped, and times of day were really just numbers on a clock so far as most of the citizens were concerned – with unemployment running in the mid-nineties for most sectors and the vast majority of citizens living on welfare, the notion of a workday was as meaningless as it was arbitrary. People did what they wanted when they wanted, and most businesses catered to that desire, being open 24-7 without any interruption in service.

All of this went through Cornelius' mind as he eased his lawmaster to a stop outside the grind bar, looking up at the scrawl of pink neon above the door; _Can-Cans_. The bar's windows were opaque black glass, glossy posters of biosculpted women – the photographs photochopped to distorted perfection – interspersed with them. The building was gaudy and garish, ill-maintained, the gutter in the street outside thick with trash, bass-thumping bump-n-grind music pumping from speakers outside. Cornelius glanced into the corner of his visor's HUD, reading the decibel level. It was within the allowed limit by a hair – Cornelius suspected Unsung's eyes and ears yesterday were responsible for compliance with noise ordinances. There was a bouncer standing at the door, arms folded over his chest, with sunglasses and a shaven head. He was about Cornelius' height and weight, but the Judge noticed his arms and torso – visible under the skin-tight T-shirt – were ripped and cut, the muscles more for display than use. Automatically, Cornelius swept his gaze over him – no visible weapons, no suggestions of anything concealed – and mentally tagged him as a potential threat.

Cornelius flicked down the kickstand, swinging himself off the bike. As he did so, his earpiece crackled to life. "_Rookie, this is Dredd._" Cornelius stopped and turned, placing himself so he could use the black glass of the bar's windows to see both up and down the street. He lifted his wrist to his mouth.

"Go ahead, Sir," he said.

"_Just raided the gang flophouse in Telegraph,_" Dredd said shortly. "_Boss cops to shotcalling the 'eagle._"

"Understood, Sir," said Cornelius. "Any idea how he knew the vic was a nark?" This was the million-credit question; if SJS had tipped the gangboss off it suggested Rawne was tying up lose ends, preventing conflicting evidence from being found.

"_Yeah_," growled Dredd. "_Vic was seen with a Judge, accepting the payoff._"

"Awful careless of the Judge," said Cornelius dryly.

Both of them knew their conversation was being monitored. Dredd grunted. "_Some Judges are,_" he said. "_Think they're invulnerable. Take note for when you're paying off your own informants,_" he added – Dredd was still mentoring, even in the middle of an obfuscating conversation. "_'Course,_" he continued, "_you can always burn 'em like that if they need to disappear._"

Cornelius made a disgusted noise. "That doesn't seem right, Sir," he complained.

"_Right or wrong, Rookie,_" Dredd said harshly, "_it ain't illegal._" The meaning was clear – _yeah, we know Rawne burned this guy and we drokking-well know why, but there ain't a damn thing we can hang on him with it._

"Understood, Sir," said Cornelius. For an instant, he considered trying to let Dredd know Quartermain was investigating Rawne, but he could think of no easy way to do so that wouldn't seem forced. "You waiting there for the catch-wagons?" he asked.

Dredd picked up as Cornelius hoped he would. "_Yeah,_" he said slowly. "_If you need me, you know where to find me._"

"Wilco, Sir," said Cornelius. "Over and out." He dropped his wrist and walked to the door of the bar. The bouncer pressed his finger into his ear as he approached.

"Judge outside," he said quietly. With the noise of the music blasting from the speakers and the sound of the street there was no way Cornelius could have heard him, but he didn't need to. The body language – secretive, defensive – was enough to arouse his suspicions. He noticed a logo on the T-shirt, a likely-meaningless collection of Hondo-Cit characters with KAI DOJO printed underneath. Despite himself and every sensible urge that said it didn't have to mean this, Cornelius revised the threat downwards to medium-level, wannabe martial artist. The bouncer unfolded himself into a big-dog stance, standing with his feet shoulder-width apart and his hands coiled into fists by his side. "Any problem, Judge?" he asked.

Cornelius shrugged, managed not to smile as he automatically counted all the incapacitating pressure-points the bouncer's move had opened up on his body – five. He revised the threat still further downwards. "Perhaps," he said. He gestured at the side of the bouncer's head. "Earwig?" he asked. "Telling them inside I'm out front?" He chuckled and shook his head. "See, that just makes me feel unwelcome. Makes me think maybe there's some reason I need to go inside."

The bouncer reached up and took off his glasses with one hand; Cornelius wasn't enough of a fool to miss the brass knuckles being taken out of the pocket by the other. The bouncer hooked one arm of the shades into the neck of his T-shirt, slipping the 'dusters onto his hand. "We had a Judge here yesterday," he said. "Bothered the girls. Bad for business."

Cornelius didn't seem concerned. "I ain't here to help your boss' bottom line," he said. "The Judge – which girl'd he bother?"

The bouncer furrowed his brow. "You what?" he asked. He shifted his weight again, his fingers flexing.

Cornelius sighed. "Look," he said, not unkindly, "how about you just take the swing – get it out of your system – and we can move on?" He glanced meaningfully down at the brass knuckles on the bouncer's fist. "I'm kind of in a hurry . . ." he began.

The bouncer stiffened, tensing his muscles and drawing his shoulder back. To Cornelius, the telegraphing of the blow was so obvious he might as well have been moving in slow motion. He snapped his fist into the bouncer's face, splitting his nose open with a crunch of cartilage and a spray of blood. The bouncer staggered backwards, his hands flying to his broken face. His eyes glazed and his head slumped, one leg going out, crashing down to kneel on the pavement. Cornelius drew his gun and put it against his forehead.

"Alright," he said briskly, "fun's over. Who'd the Judge talk to?"

"Drokk, man!" The bouncer's voice was whiny and nasal, muffled behind his hands. "You bust my spugging nose!"

"Yeah," said Cornelius, "I'll do more than that. Wonder how long your boss'll keep you employed if I go inside and tell him one little love-tap put his bow-wow guard dog on his knees? Maybe I'll mention it to the girls; we can all have a laugh."

"Spug you, man!" The bouncer was holding onto scraps of his professional dignity and manhood. "You surprised me, is all. The Judge talked to lots of the girls, but he spent the most time with Candi – something about her giving a dance to some gangboss."

"Candi," said Cornelius slowly. "And where can I find Candi?"

oOo

Quartermain knocked on the door of Rawne's office and eased it open carefully; it wasn't that she distrusted Cornelius telling her he was at SJS that morning, but she had a nagging feeling – it did not truly rise to the level of premonition, not yet – he would be at the Academy sooner rather than later. She peered inside – there was no-one in the office. Breathing a sigh of relief, she slipped inside and closed the door behind her.

Rawne's office was small – not much more than a closet. There was a desk about halfway in that stretched nearly the full width of the room. Behind the desk, the walls were lined with books and filing cabinets. A display of knives – ranging from modern to ancient – hung on another wall. Quartermain slipped behind the desk and sat down, automatically adjusting the chair so she could sit comfortably, nudging the mouse so the computer came online, presenting her with the standard J-Dept login screen.

She pulled a jumpdrive from her pocket, reaching behind the computer to plug it in. A small window opened on the screen, blocky 8-bit green text scrolling on a black background too fast to read. Abruptly, the window vanished, the password typing itself automatically and the LOGIN icon pressing. Rawne's desktop opened up.

Quartermain looked at the screen for a second, seeking an unobtrusive folder with an innocuous name. There wasn't anything obvious – the desktop was all-but-bare, the wallpaper the SJS badge with the motto QUIS CUSTODIET IPSOS CUSTODES? She nodded resignedly; Rawne was the sort of guy to keep things organized, no scattered files and NEW FOLDER(1) for him.

She opened the email program; once again, organization stared back at her – mails were organized into labeled folders by subject, further broken down into subfolders. There was nothing obvious, nothing incriminating. She opened the 'Aegis' folder and scanned through it; emails between him and Anderson, between him and DCJ Cal, emails from and to Brufen he was CC'd on – most of those were unread; she opened one – it was technical details she could make neither head nor tail of and nothing more.

She was getting worried – her feeling was gnawing at her, growing into a premonition. A couple of times she actually looked up, convinced she'd heard the door and only when she saw it was still closed realizing her sixth-sense was playing tricks on her. She very deliberately looked back down at the computer, opened the Sent Items folder and scrolled quickly through the mails. There were too many of them for her to make sense of, certainly too many to read them all. She stuck her chin on her fists, considering what to do.

An idea struck her. "Bank records were altered," she muttered to herself. "CyberCrimes could do that . . . or the bank themselves." She opened a search window and looked for emails sent to the CyberCrimes subdomain – nothing for the last six months. She reset the search and clicked the box for 'Sent to external addresses only'. She swept her eyes down the destinations of the filtered emails. One caught her eye – sent to the manager of a CapZone bank a few days before, with a meaningless subject line and a large attachment. She opened the attachment, her brows drawn together in incomprehension. She opened a browser window, plugged some information from the attachment into an online database and took note of the information it spat back.

The premonition was strong now – she had a crystal clear vision of her standing at the door, an expression of studied innocence on her face, as Rawne glowered at her. She closed the windows, reached behind the computer and unplugged the jumpdrive. The desktop instantly vanished, replaced by the login screen. She jumped up, taking a precious second to push the chair into place from where it had rolled back. She hurried to the door, pocketing the jumpdrive as she did so, skidding to a halt and stitching an expression of studied innocence on her face.

The door opened, Quartermain turning to face it, looking surprised as Rawne entered. "Oh!" she exclaimed "Tutor! I'm so sorry, I . . ." She trailed her voice off.

Rawne used his smile like a weapon. "Come in, Cadet," he said archly. "You make it a habit to enter Tutors' offices without being invited?"

Quartermain's face fell. "Oh my Grud, Sir," she said, "I'm _so_ sorry. I . . ." She sighed, embarrassment on her face. "The truth is, Sir," she admitted, "my . . . _ability_ is sometimes unreliable. Confusing. It comes to me in flashes, I can't tell what's real and what's not," she lied. "And, when I knocked on your door, I could have _sworn_ I heard you say 'Come in, Cadet' but . . . I guess that must have been you saying it just now, Sir," she finished.

"Hmm." Rawne raised a single eyebrow. "As I believe I have said before, Cadet," he told her coldly, "you need to exercise greater discipline over your . . . _talent._ No matter – why are you here?"

Quartermain's eyes and mouth assumed the shapes of perfect Os. "Oh!" she said. "Yes . . ." She wracked her brain, thinking fast. "Well, Sir," she began, "that is . . . I came to apologize for my conduct last night. It wasn't very becoming of a Judicial-Cadet – and I realize that now. I was . . . upset. Cassan . . . _Judge Anderson_ was very important to me." She grit her teeth and swallowed her revulsion. "I realize my loyalty was misplaced."

Rawne smiled, mollified. "Well, that is refreshing, Cadet," he said smugly. "Thank you – let's say no more of it." Quartermain smiled at him, standing there waiting for him to say more. "_Dismissed,_" he said sharply.

Quartermain's mouth opened and closed abruptly. She tensed into attention. "_Sir!_" she snapped, spinning on her heel and darting out of the room. Rawne watched her go and then shook his head despairingly, walking behind his desk and sitting in a chair that didn't feel quite right.

It took him a moment, but he realized what was wrong – the seat was too high.

oOo

Cornelius sat with Candi in her apartment in the Austin hab-block – it was a nicer apartment than some, a level above welfare, but still not a desirable domicile. It had a separate bathroom, a small bedroom, and a kitchen counter with a microwave and tiny fridge to the side of the main room. There was no hotplate, but she'd lucked out on the windows – she had two. The paint was dull, the fixtures cheap. This was life for the employed-poor of Mega City One; lucky enough to have a job to earn a little bit more money than what welfare provided, unable to lift oneself far enough out of poverty to avoid the risk of having it all taken by gangs. "Thanks for talking with me," he said. He pushed the presspulp cup of coffee towards her. "Here," he said. "I know it's early for you – you were working last night, right?" She reached for the coffee, lifting the lid off, and nodded.

"Yeah," she said. She took a sip, pursing her plump lips as she did so. She was, despite the fact her face was puffy with sleep and her bottle-blonde hair disheveled and unbrushed, genuinely and surprisingly beautiful. She was a year or two younger than Cornelius, about average height, with a frankly amazing figure – enhanced with beyond-natural biosculpting, of course, but her native advantages had been immense. She was wearing a flimsy pink bathrobe and nothing else – Cornelius suspected he'd not only woken her, but that she slept in the nude. He hadn't let her leave his sight to put on different clothes, but other than the instant required to make sure she had nothing concealed amid her own weapons of mass distraction, he'd kept his gaze fixed firmly on her face.

Her eyes widened – they were big, doe-brown and very pretty. They still, despite the things she must have seen and put up with as a dancer in a grind bar, retained much of their innocence. Her skin was smooth and unblemished, no sign of narcotic use. "Is this the real stuff?" she asked in wonder. Cornelius nodded. "Oh, wow," she said, taking a larger gulp. "Haven't had this since . . ." She sighed and her eyes became misty and introspective. "Thanks," she said eventually. "You didn't need to do that."

Cornelius shrugged. "Everyone deserves a little luxury," he said shortly. "Should I call you Candi, or . . . ?"

She smiled at the small kindness. "My name's Suzanne," she said. "But, if you come to the club, and you don't need to use my real name . . ." Her voice trailed off.

"I'll ask for Candi," he promise. "And I probably won't be at the club," he assured her. "I just need some answers."

Her beautiful face fell. "Pity," she pouted. Cornelius actually laughed.

"You want a Judge poking into your business?" he asked. She shrugged.

"We've got nothing to hide," she told him naively. "We're licensed, we're clean, we don't do anything illegal." He suspected that wasn't entirely true, but he chose not to press the issue. "And some bronze-and-black around might stop the guys getting so grabby," she added glumly. She looked at him, her head on one side and her eyes introspective. "I guess I'm just enjoying talking to a man who doesn't need to pay for women," she admitted.

Cornelius ignored the compliment. "You're talking to me because I flashed the bronze, Suzanne," he reminded her. She took another slug of coffee and shook her head.

"Oh, no!" she exclaimed. "I'd talk to you anyway." She smiled. "You're . . . nice," she added vaguely.

Cornelius fixed her with a firm stare. "I'm a Judge, Suzanne," he reminded her. "Have a care."

Her hand flew to her mouth. "Oh!" she gasped, "I didn't mean it like that, I'm sorry. I mean, you . . . you're kind." She sipped her coffee. "And you look at my face," she said softly. "A girl notices those things. It might not seem like much, but it means a lot."

"I'm a Judge," he said again. "I don't ogle women." She shook her head.

"_Y__ou_ don't ogle women," she corrected him. "Judges?" She shrugged. "They're like any other guy under the uniform."

Cornelius brows drew together. Assessment and the first few weeks on the streets were, so the back-channel teaching outside the classrooms at the Academy had taught him, an education in how Mega City One and the Judges really functioned. It seemed this grinder would be one of the first of his tutors. "There's not supposed to be any 'under'," he told her. "It's supposed to go to the bone."

Suzanne bit her lip. "I don't want to get anyone in trouble," she moaned. "Oh, please – forget I said anything."

Cornelius shook his head. "If they're doing that," he said, "they're already in trouble." His tone made it clear he implied both meanings of the term. Suzanne thought she understood.

"I guess," she said. "I mean, you can't have Judges involved with girls like me," she said glumly.

"We can't have Judges _involved_, Suzanne," Cornelius explained. "It's bias, distraction, partisanship. And what's all this 'girls like you' spug? Fine, you sling your booty around a pole and tell guys they're all that so long as their credits are good. You know the only difference between you and a hot secretary who can't type?" he asked. She shook her head. "Geography," he said shortly.

Suzanne burst into tears and buried her face in her hands. "Oh, Grud!" she sobbed. "You're, like, the best guy _ever_!" She dabbed at her tears with the corner of a napkin. "Just tell me there's someone," she begged. "I don't mean a girlfriend. I mean, like, a girl who can come to you whenever she needs. Someone you're always there for, not just when you happen by." She sniffled and wiped her nose. "'Cause it's a waste otherwise," she said decisively.

Cornelius sighed deeply. "I've got a couple," he finally admitted. "And one of them's in real trouble, and the other one might be if I don't get some answers." He pushed his left arm forward, bringing the gangboss' face up on his gauntlet screen. "This guy," he said. She tilted her head to look, using it as an excuse to lay her hand on his wrist. She nodded.

"I already told the other Judge," Suzanne explained. "He comes in, fairly often. He . . . he likes Candi. Won't buy a table-twirl if he's with his men, but he'll get a lapgrind or a private dance when he's alone."

Cornelius nodded. "Last time he was in, couple of nights ago – he buy a dance?"

Suzanne nodded. "Oh, yes," she said. "He'd just made a big score or something – he had a lot of cash. Gave me a hundred."

"And you deposited that in the bank?" asked Cornelius. She nodded enthusiastically.

"A C-note?" she asked. "Drokk, yes. Most of the time it's a bunch of singles dirtying up my garter, maybe a ten or a twenty if I'm lucky – I'll keep those in my purse. But a hundred?" She shook her head. "That goes right in the bank – this is a bad part of town."

"It's all bad," said Cornelius. "Which bank?"

She flicked her head. "44th National, north on Twelve," she said. "Put it into the ATM. It's lit, you know? And there's that convenience store opposite – more cameras. I paid it in, grabbed a slopdog and took the trolley home." Cornelius nodded and smiled his thanks – but Suzanne could tell he was disappointed there wasn't anything else. "I'm sorry, Judge," he said as he stood. "I hope it works out for your friend."

He nodded. "Thanks, Suzanne," he said. "Me too."

She twirled the presspulp cup in her manicured fingers, looking regretfully into its empty depths. "You brought the hammer down on him, didn't you?" she asked quietly. "Is he . . . ?"

Cornelius shook his head. "Just in the cubes," he told her. "Life, though."

Fresh tears in her eyes, streaming down her cheeks now. "That ain't living," she said. Angrily, she wiped the tears away. "Drokk it all," she muttered, "why do people have to be so _stupid_?"

"Hey!" Cornelius slammed his hand on the table. "You want out of this game, Suzanne?" he asked. "You wanna be Candi forever?"

She looked up at him with her eyes red rimmed and brimming with tears. "It's a living," she managed.

"It ain't _life_," said Cornelius.

"What do you care?" she sobbed. "I'm just some girl who came to the capital zone from the outskirts with a dream to be a dancer. You've probably heard that story a thousand times, know none of us'll make it. You could probably have told me I'd end up like this. I'm just a drokking idiot deserving all she gets." She crossed her arms in front of her and made to throw her head down on them.

Cornelius caught her chin gently in one massive hand, lifted her face to look at him. "I care because I'm, like, the best guy ever, apparently," he reminded her. "And because I'm a Judge – you think I want you caught in the crossfire when I bring the hammer down on some other gangbanger who likes Candi? You think I want to bust you for turning tricks when your looks fade and guys won't pay for grind? I know how this story ends – it ain't pretty."

"I was a good dancer," she whispered. "Local community center offered me a job teaching classes – but I wanted bright lights." Her voice was bitter. "No way to get back now – I've crashed that shuttle." She shook her head as Cornelius started to speak. "No," she said firmly. "No. You go to your friends. I hope I could help."

The civilian communicator in Cornelius' pocket beeped. He glanced down at Suzanne, felt the crushing weight of futility encompass him, knowing that – inevitably, sooner or later – her path would intersect with the black-and-bronze again and she would suffer. It beeped again, seemingly more insistent this time. He stepped outside. "What you got, Jackie?" he asked softly.

Quartermain's voice was tinny through the poor quality speaker. "_I don't really know what I was looking for, Sir,_" she said apologetically. "_I couldn't find anything obvious, you know? But there was one email – sent to a bank manager. It doesn't make sense – the subject line is a number. Nothing in the message, but a video's attached. It's CCTV footage, some slidewalker at an ATM._"

Cornelius didn't correct her mis-identification of Suzanne – she did, it was true, look like a hooker. "Which bank?" he asked.

"_Thought you'd ask_," said Quartermain – she sounded unjustifiably proud of herself. "_CCTV has a GPS stamp – I plugged it into MapTrax. It's 44__th__ National on Twelve, CapZone. What do you want me to do?_"

Cornelius braced the communicator between his shoulder and ear. "Read me the number in the subject line," he said, pulling a stylus from his gauntlet. She read it to him as he wrote it down. A couple of taps and he'd run it through the central banking database. "Gotcha, you SJS son-of-a-spug," he muttered.

"_I did good?_" Quartermain asked, unable to keep the elation and excitement out of her voice.

oOo

Under the Academy stairwell, wedged into a small space next to a vending machine, Quartermain practically vibrated with happiness as Cornelius' voice came through the speaker. "_You did great, Jackie. That's a serial number from the Aegis account._"

"SJS had the bank manager swap it!" Quartermain exclaimed.

_ "Right,_" said Cornelius. "_That's enough to get Cassie released, maybe Rawne in hot water. If I can find the original deposit records, things could get even worse for him – the actual note likely came from an SJS account._"

"I'm going to SJS right now, Sir," Quartermain said eagerly. "I'll show them the evidence and they'll . . ."

"_Countermand!_" Cornelius' voice was such pitch-perfect Tutor that Quartermain snapped to attention purely by instinct. "_It's not just Rawne – I'm not sending you into the lion's den alone. Find Dredd – face to face, don't do this over comms. Last location I have for him is raiding a gang flophouse in Telegraph. Tell him my compliments and what you just told me. He'll handle SJS._"

"Yes, Sir." Quartermain hung up and stowed the communicator, squeezing out from behind the vending machine and half-jogging briskly down the corridor. When she was out of sight, Rawne stepped down the stairs, turning onto the landing above her hiding place. He thought for a moment and then lifted his wrist, sending a single-word text message to his most loyal SJS Judges;

_CLYTEMNESTRA_

oOo

Quartermain didn't need her precognitive power to predict where she could find Dredd – on the south side of the atrium of Telegraph two meat-wagons were parked, a catch-wagon already driving away. She hurried forward, breaking into a run as she neared him. "Judge Dredd!" she called. "Sir!"

Dredd spun to face her, his hand automatically falling to his lawgiver. She skidded to a halt in front of him, stiffing into attention. "Cadet," he said carefully.

"Sir! Cadet Quartermain, Jacqueline F reporting, Sir!" she snapped. She remained at immobile attention, waiting for him to tell her to continue. After a second, he realized what she wanted.

"This is the street, not the Academy, Cadet," Dredd growled dismissively. "Save it for the Tutors. What's the skinny?"

Quartermain faintly pouted with disappointment. "Sir," she said, "Judge Cornelius' compliments, and . . ." She poured out the story in a tumble of words.

Dredd was silent for a second. "You'll testify to this?" he asked. Quartermain nodded furiously.

"Sir, yes Sir!" she exclaimed.

Dredd shrugged. "Good enough for me," he said. He flicked his head at her, gathering her up by eye and marching towards his bike. "Where's my Rookie?" he asked, swinging into the saddle. Quartermain stood to the side, feeling very spare and unsafe.

"Sir, I believe he is at the bank," she said. "He was going to try to find the original deposit records." Dredd nodded and fired the engine. "Sir!" exclaimed Quartermain. "You _are_ going to save Cassandra, aren't you?" she asked plaintively.

"Cassandra," Dredd rumbled slowly. "You mean Judge Anderson?"

Quartermain swallowed and lifted her chin. She knew Dredd's reputation – hard, unbending, devoted, friendless and undistracted. He wouldn't understand. But, drokk it all, she wasn't going to lie. "Sir," she said, "I just disobeyed direct orders, accessed files without authorization, and left the Academy without permission. Stick a fork in me, I am _done_. But I didn't just burn everything for a fellow Judge. I burned it for a _friend._"

"Friend," Dredd seemed to roll the word around his mouth. "Heh." He shook his head. "Lot of that going around, Cadet," he said shortly. He gestured behind him. "Get on," he ordered. "SJS can't bust your ass if we bust theirs first, right?"

Quartermain's sensual mouth split in a wide grin. "Sir, yes _Sir!_" she exclaimed, eagerly clambering on the back of the lawmaster and wrapping her arms under Dredd's shoulders, clinging on tightly and pressing her cheek into the cold carapace plates of his armor as the bike accelerated into traffic.

oOo

With the roar of the engine, the scream of the traffic around them, the howl of the wind and the honking of angry horns, there was no way Quartermain could hear the whole conversation between Dredd and DCJ on the frantic, helter-skelter ride to SJS. One half of it was in his earbead, most of the other half whipped away by the speed of the bike. But snatches came to her when the wind was right, fragments rumbling through his chest and transmitted to her understanding more through her zygomatic arch than eardrum. ". . . don't care if he's in a meeting, get him out . . . Anderson, Sir . . . I believe so . . . stake my badge on it, Sir . . ."

He brought the bike to a screeching halt outside the Hall of Justice. Quartermain, her limbs trembling with adrenaline, fear, anticipation and the twitches of future-knowing, hopped smartly off so he didn't clock her in the face when he dismounted. "Yes, Sir," Dredd was saying. "Thank you, Sir . . . I understand, Sir, I will." He cut the connection, glancing at Quartermain. "DCJ's appraised, Cadet," he told her. "He's skeptical, but he'll cut Anderson loose for now. He's sending access authorization and release codes to my gauntlet." He jogged up the stairs of the Hall of Justice, shoving through the revolving doors with Quartermain scurrying at his heels.

"What?" she exclaimed as he strode through the foyer towards the elevators. "Cut loose _for now_?" she asked. "She's not free and clear?"

Dredd shook his head without turning, only facing her as he stepped inside the elevator, keying the buttons for the SJS level and pressing his gauntlet against the reader to accept the digital authorization. Quartermain hopped inside just in time, the doors snapping shut inches from her heels. "Evidence is circumstantial, Cadet," he explained. "Proves nothing. DCJ needs something more solid – like the original deposit records."

Quartermain set her jaw. "Cornelius will get those, Sir," she said firmly. "I promise you that."

"If they exist," Dredd growled. He glanced down at Quartermain, as if seeing her youth and delicate flightiness for the first time. "You and the Rookie better be right, Cadet," he said meaningfully, "I told DCJ I'd stake my badge on this."

Quartermain looked at him evenly. "Lot of that going around, Sir," she said quietly. Dredd didn't answer, just looked at her for long seconds. She blinked once or twice, her face a picture of innocent curiosity.

The elevator slid to a stop, the doors opening automatically. At his hip, Dredd's lawgiver made a metallic beep – he half-drew it, verified what he suspected. "SJS override?" asked Quartermain, a grimace on her face. Dredd shrugged.

"Stops hot-headed friends jail-breaking with bullets," he remarked, striding down the corridor towards the guard station.

Quartermain hurried after him, glancing around as she did so. The ceilings were low here – an inch of clearance above the top of Dredd's helmet – the corridors narrow with the walls painted dark gray and institutional green. Cameras and redundant backups blinked at each intersection. The doors were heavy; thick, riveted steel with both electronic and mechanical locks. "I'm not armed, Sir," she said – as much to remind him as defend herself.

Dredd glanced back at her, gave a short shrug. "Wasn't talking about you, Cadet," he said grimly. He reached the guard station – a sturdy semi-circular desk with the seal of the SJS etched on the glass surface. An SJS Judge sat behind it, a computer terminal in front of him, security and surveillance data projected on the tabletop from the underside. As Dredd leaned over the desk, Quartermain noticed several of the blocks were red – cameras off-line. "New evidence in the Anderson case," growled Dredd. "Release her." He slapped his hand down on the surface of the desk, keying a button on his gauntlet screen to transfer the data.

The Judge – his badge said his name was Strong – quickly scanned the release authorization. He reached for a 'phone. "I need to contact Rawne," he began, but got no further before Dredd's hand slammed the receiver back down onto its cradle.

"Rawne's dirty, Strong," he growled. "Now, where is she?"

Strong's eyes widened at that revelation. He quickly scrolled through information on his terminal. "Cell 5-B," he said, pointing. He stood, drew his lawgiver. "They were moving her – from one cell to another," he said. "If Rawne's dirty . . ."

"Then maybe someone else is, too," Quartermain finished for him. She ignored his glare and gestured at the SecSur display on the tabletop. "Cameras are out in that section, Sir," she told Dredd.

Dredd nodded, glanced at a map on the wall and set off at a run, Quartermain and Strong at his heels. As they approached corridor five, they could hear the sounds of a struggle, a woman's voice raised angrily. They rounded the corner, to see Anderson – hands cuffed behind her, her trim figure disguised in the unflattering orange jumpsuit – struggling with two SJS Judges. As they watched, one slugged her in the jaw with the full force of his arm. Her eyes glazed and she slumped, crashing to her knees, her head hanging, blood and saliva drooling from the corner of her mouth – the very image of the defeated prisoner. One of the SJS Judges drew his pistol and pointed it between her eyes. "Shot while trying to escape," he sneered. "A classic."

Frantically, Anderson flung herself to the side as the gun roared, the bullet whipping past her ear. She spun on the ground, twisting as she did so, tucking herself into a ball and sliding her hands under her hips. She vaulted back to her feet with the suddenness of a conjuring trick, her wrists now cuffed in front of her, and grabbed the lawgiver.

They struggled over it, Anderson twisting inside his guard. Her back was against his chest, the gun trapped under her arm, his other hand grabbing her throat. The other SJS Judge drew his taser – at this range, a bullet might pass right through her and still retain killing velocity – and jabbed toward her. Anderson closed her eyes and stilled, her concentration palpable and metallic-tasting to the mind in the enclosed space.

The lawgiver roared twice, three times, as the sudden compulsion to fire enveloped the SJS Judge's mind, his colleague stumbling backwards with his stomach a bloody mess and a look of disbelief on his face. Anderson opened her eyes and smiled smugly, jerking her neck so the crown of her skull slammed hard into the killer's chin, snapping his head back. He staggered, briefly stunned, as she spun around and drove herself towards him.

He steadied himself against the wall and pointed his lawgiver at her. She was on him in a second, knocking the gun aside with her manacled hands and digging her fingernails savagely into his wrist, making him drop the pistol with a yelp of pain. She jammed the chain of the cuffs into this throat, her fists up under his ears. The two of them struggled briefly, he making real use of his height and weight to shove her back. They spun around, almost looking like they were dancing.

"Shoot him, for Grud's sake!" yelled Quartermain.

Strong's fingers worked on the butt of his gun, frantically tracking the combatants. He pulled the trigger. Blood, bone and brains splattered Anderson's face as the SJS Judge went limp in her grasp, a neat hole in his skull just above and behind his right ear, a much larger exit wound above his left eye. "Grud on a drokking greenie," she muttered thickly. She staggered backwards, leaning heavily against the wall and sliding down with a groan. Quartermain rushed towards her with a cry of joy, pulling her sleeve over her hand to wipe away the blood from her lips and chin.

Dredd stepped past Strong. "Nice shooting," he said shortly, pulling out his handcuff keys and reaching down to free Anderson. "You okay?" he asked. Anderson massaged her wrists and gingerly probed her face, wincing as she moved her jaw. She nodded, rubbing the back of her head.

"I've been better," she admitted. Dredd nodded, gave the closest thing he got to a smile, and offered her a hand up. She took it, gasping in pain as she stood upright. She leaned heavily on Quartermain, the younger woman beaming with happiness and practically cuddling her. "You glad this is resolved, Judge Strong?" Anderson asked.

The SJS Judge nodded. "Yes, Judge Anderson," he said. He sounded shocked, looking at the Judge he'd just killed. "Very glad."

She put her head on one side. "So," she asked curiously, "why was your intention to shoot _me_, and not him?"

Beside her, Quartermain gasped and stiffened. Dredd took less than a microsecond to spin towards Strong, knocking the gun out of his hand as he brought it to bear. It scattered on the floor as Strong punched Dredd in the jaw, the pouches of lead shot sew into his glove's knuckles giving his fist extra weight. Dredd staggered to one side as Anderson lunged for Strong, shoving Quartermain out of the way. She ran straight into Strong's fist and then the other – a one-two punch that laid her out on the floor twitching.

Dredd crouched and drove himself at Strong, tackling him and driving him backwards, his arms wrapped around his chest. He slammed him into the wall, driving his fist repeatedly into Strong's gut, feeling Strong's knee slam into his chest and abdomen. Dredd staggered backwards, pulled himself upright and swung for Strong's head.

The blow landed, denting the skull-visor and slamming Strong's helmet against the wall with a crack. Strong shrugged off the blow and whipped a taser from his belt, activating it and driving it into Dredd's midsection. Dredd grunted in pain, his body assaulted by brutal current. His nerves were screaming at him, his muscles clenching and unclenching of their own volition.

Dredd fell to his knees, gritting his teeth. The pain was one thing, but the electrical shock was overwhelming – his limbs simply wouldn't obey him. Strong snarled in triumph and jerked the taser free, grabbing Dredd by the collar and jabbing downwards into his unprotected neck and spine. There, the voltage would probably kill instantly – definitely do so sooner or later.

Behind Strong, Quartermain swung her leg with all the force she could muster, her boot whipping upwards and slamming between his legs with a wet snapping noise. Strong screamed like a girl, collapsing to his knees and frantically clutching at himself.

Dredd was still kneeling, one hand on the floor, his head hanging. Slowly, he looked up at Quartermain. "Nice move," he gasped. "Academy teach you that?"

Quartermain shook her head. "No, Sir," she said, "my mother." She shrugged. "We both have a lot of brothers."

Anderson groaned and rolled over onto all fours, getting slowly to her knees and accepting Quartermain's help to stand. She rubbed her hand across her forehead. "Owwww . . ." she said with feeling. She looked over at Dredd, one foot down, his hand on that knee, shoving himself upright and through the pain, the nervous tremors after the massive electrical shock suppressed through sheer force of will. His concentration, his iron control, his bloody-minded determination to be flawless, impervious, the very personification of justice was almost – _almost_, but not quite – enough to shield the glowing core of compassion in his heart. She bit her bruised lips to stop herself smiling – she didn't want him to know she knew, she owned him that much and more. "We done?" was all she asked.

Dredd shook his head. "Rawne's still out there," he said. "It ain't over 'till he's in a cell." He glanced down at Strong, still curled up, letting out high-pitched panting gasps as he rolled around on the floor. He grabbed him by the throat and hauled him upright, slamming him against the wall and tearing his dented helmet from his head. "Where's your boss?" he asked.

Strong's face was bruised and twisted with pain, but his eyes were defiant. "Spug you, Dredd," he spat. Dredd put his hand against Strong's forehead and bounced his skull, hard, off the wall behind him. Strong reeled, his eyes glazed.

"I'm gonna ask one more time," snarled Dredd. "And then I let little-miss Bend It Like Beauchamp here take a few more penalty kicks." Strong managed to laugh.

"Really?" he slurred thickly. "You think that'll work?"

Dredd shrugged and punched him in the gut. Strong doubled over, coughing and spluttering. Dredd stepped backwards to avoid the spray of bloody vomit that splashed on the floor. "Worked earlier," he said shortly.

Anderson sighed wearily, pushing herself off Quartermain and standing on her own. "Shove aside," she said, "let the professional work." Dredd glanced at her – saw the confidence, the determination, the idealism he'd seen through mirror glass and in Peach Trees – and nodded. He reached down and grabbed Strong, jerking him to his feet and propping him against the wall.

"All yours, Anderson," he said, turning and walking away.

She smiled, wiped her dirty hands on the thighs of her jumpsuit, and reached for Strong's lolling head. He looked at her with glazed and hate-filled eyes.

To his senses, it was as if her slender, powerful hands reached right through his skull into his brain.

oOo

"Get me the manager."

The bank teller looked up at Cornelius and smiled nervously. "He's with a customer right now, Judge," she said. She lifted a 'phone receiver. "I'll tell him you're waiting – is it very urgent?"

"Where is he?" Cornelius asked. She didn't answer, but the slide of her eyes betrayed her. Cornelius looked where she'd glanced – a pudgy, florid man in an oversized suit of orange, green and gray check with blue knee and elbow pads was seated behind a desk inside the glassed-in offices of the bank, speaking with a young couple. His dyed-black hair was slicked back in an unconvincing combover and although the bank was air-conditioned he was sweating as he talked, dabbing at his shining forehead with a red-and-white polka-dot handkerchief which matched his cravat. "Thank you," said Cornelius, vaulting easily over the counter one-handed.

"Judge!" the teller exclaimed. She grabbed his arm. "Please, Judge, you can't . . ."

He turned and jabbed two fingers with surgical precision into the base of her sternum – she staggered back, gasping for breath, flopping into her chair like a stranded fish. "I can do what I drokking well please," he said sharply. "And never lay hands on a Judge again; that's your one for free." He moved to the security door that led into the inner offices – it was locked, of course. Cornelius glanced at another teller – they were all looking at him with fear and trepidation. "Open it," he ordered.

The teller gulped nervously. "With respect, Judge . . ." he began.

"Armour piercing," said Cornelius easily, drawing his lawgiver. He leveled the gun at the locking mechanism. The teller gasped and leaped forward, fumbling for his access card and swiping it through the reader. Lights flashed red and then green, the lock clicking as the door swung open. "Thank you," said Cornelius, stepping through the door and striding towards the bank manager.

The office space behind the armored wall separating them from the foyer and main counter were mostly open-plan, with low cubicle walls and a few enclosed rooms with glass walls. The manager's office was one of these. It had no door, but there was a white sound generator above the doorway, ensuring silence and privacy. Cornelius strode through it, glanced down at the couple. "Meeting's over," he said. "Perhaps take your business to another branch – he won't be signing anything except a confession."

The young couple gasped, the wife clutching her husband's arm. He was already stumbling upright, drawing back her chair and helping her out of the room. "We don't want any trouble, Judge," he stammered. "If we can go . . . ?" Cornelius flicked his head dismissively, never taking his eyes off the manager. He looked up at Cornelius in fear and shock, reaching under his desk and pressing a hidden button. Cornelius sighed.

"That was drokking stupid," he opined. He turned to the doorway – the young couple were hurrying out of it, brushing past the uniformed security guard charging in with a baton. Almost casually, Cornelius caught his descending wrist and twisted, sending him flipping over his shoulders and crashing into and through one of the plate-glass walls of the office. He crashed to the ground in a bleeding heap and did not immediately rise.

Cornelius turned his attention back to the bank manager, glaring at the terrified little man with contempt. Abruptly, something snapped inside him and he grabbed the desk, half-lifting it and hurling it aside in a shower of computer, pens, papers and shattering glass. He grabbed the manager by the throat and lifted him up, slamming his head hard against the wall. A pattern of bloodied cracks spiderwebbed from the impact point. "You changed the deposit records," Cornelius snarled. "Rawne sent you a serial number to use and a video so you knew which deposit to fake." He smashed his head against the glass again, harder this time. The whole wall crazed and bent. "Give me the original files and I'll go easy," he promised.

The bank manager was a terrified wreck. "I can't!" he sobbed. His pants were wet, urine dripping down his legs to the floor. "I can't! Grud's truth, I can't! We were _robbed_ yesterday – they took the ATM. Smashed in with exo-skeletons. A Judge responded, but he went crazy! Other Judges restrained him, but the robbers got away."

Cornelius shook his head in amazement and admiration at Rawne's organization and forethought. "Planted the drugs, knew who'd respond to a robbery _he_ probably organized, had his men ready to handle things," he muttered. There was no way to get the original information – the ATM was probably destroyed by now, at the very least at the bottom of the Pot-o-Mud. He gritted his teeth and gripped the bank manager tighter. "You very nearly sent an innocent Judge to Aspen," he snarled. "Now, you son-of-a-spug, _give!_ Rawne contacted you, had you change the records, right? A C-note deposited by a bottle-blonde grinder. Gave you the serial number to change it to."

Cornelius had the manager's terrified face framed in his visorcam, the audio levels high but not distorted, recording clearly. The manager nodded, tears streaming down his face. "Yes!" he sobbed. "Yes! Judge Rawne contacted me, promised me he'd run SJS funds through my bank, said he'd make sure I did well. He sent me the mail. I changed the records like he asked."

Cornelius smiled, nodding with satisfaction. He took one hand off the manager's throat, lifting his wrist to contact Dredd. At that very instant, his gun cycled down with a metallic beep and the unmistakeable crack of a lawgiver round echoed through the bank.

oOo

It seemed to Strong he was in the middle of a maze-like array of bookshelves and filing cabinets, racks and stacks extending as far as the eye could see in every direction. Each cabinet had a padlock on it, a bunch of keys hanging from his belt. Anderson – in her uniform, her face unmarred by bruises, her hair neat – stood in front of him. She glanced around. "Secrets," she said evenly.

"My secrets," he snarled. She smiled, reached out with her hand.

He watched with amazement as the keys flew off his belt and into her grasp. She shook her head. "Not any more," she mocked. She turned away, looking up and down and along the corridors of files. "Now, where is Rawne?" she asked.

"I'm not telling you," he said defiantly. She shook her head, looked over her shoulder at him.

"I'm not asking you," she said. She jingled the keys. "I don't _need_ to ask you," she reminded him. She lifted her finger and tapped her lips in thought. "Ah, yes," she said, "there." She set off at a run down the corridor, turning the corner. Almost unwillingly, Strong followed after her.

She was unlocking a cabinet, riffling through it, pulling files out at will. He tried to move forward, tried to stop her, but he found he couldn't. No matter how he grabbed at her hands, he couldn't stop her from going through his memories, his secrets. "There we are," she said, pulling out a piece of paper. She read through it, smiled and put it back in the file. "Now I know," she said easily. She closed her eyes and tilted her head as if listening. "There's something else," she said. She turned to him and pointed her finger at him. "Show me," she ordered.

"Spug you, you mutie bitch," he spat. Anderson raised a single brushstroke brow.

"That's not polite," she said softly, "and it wasn't a request. Show. _Me._"

Strong screamed in agony as Anderson smashed through his mindscape, the shelves and files falling away, folding back behind the local reality as a massive vault rose behind him. Anderson could feel heat coming off it in waves; the walls rippling, oyster-hued metal. "Oh, what _do_ you keep in there?" she asked. She stepped forward past Strong's kneeling form, to lay a gloved hand on the wall of the vault.

Smoke and the sound of searing rose from her palm and she snatched her hand back, hissing in pain. "Well, this doesn't come installed as standard," she remarked. She rolled her shoulders and held her hands out, palms facing the vault, fiercely concentrating. Waves of frost spread from her hands, crackling over the glowing walls of the vault. Steam and fume rose from them, the ice melting and vaporizing as it spread over the metal. Anderson pushed her hands harder forward, her teeth gritted. The vault cooled with a sharp _plink-plink-plink _noise, cracks appearing in the stressed metal, rimed frost covering the walls. Anderson lowered her hands and reached for her daystick, deploying it with a flick of her wrist. "Pinata time," she said with a grin.

She swung at the vault. The metal fractured, shards of frozen metal breaking off. She swung again, harder this time. A whole corner cracked and fell away. She drew back her arm for a third blow.

The ground heaved beneath her feet, an unseen siren screaming, red lights bathing everything in a crimson glow. "Self-destruct in five, four, three . . ." intoned Strong's voice.

Anderson spun to look at Strong in amazement. "What the drokk . . . ?" she asked. She shook her head – no time for this spug. "Time to go," she said.

"Anderson!" Dredd's voice snapped her back to herself. "Anderson, what did you do to him?" She opened her eyes to see Strong's head held in her hands, his eyes vacant and lifeless, thick blood pouring from his nose and ears. She let go and he fell to the ground like a puppet with its strings cut. She reached for his mind – there was nothing there, not even the autonomic remnants of a dying brainstem.

"I didn't . . . wow," she managed. She ran a hand through her hair. "That wasn't me – there was something locked away, protected by a psionic bomb; a deep-implanted psychic hypnotic compulsion to suicide."

"You've seen it before?" asked Dredd.

She shook her head, her lightness of mood returning. "No," she said brightly, "but I never let that stop me from sounding like an expert." She shivered, looking down at the very-dead SJS Judge lying at her feet, wondering just what might have happened to her if she hadn't pulled her mind out of his head in time. "What the drokk _was_ that?" she mused.

"No time for that right now," Dredd told sharply. "Where's Rawne?" She snapped her head up to him.

"A bank - 44th National on Twelve," she said.

"That's where Cornelius is," Quartermain said. "He's finding the original deposit records."

Dredd looked at his still-offline lawgiver, remembered his conversations with his Rookie. "Not good," he said. "Let's roll."

oOo

Cornelius dropped the bank manager's corpse, cleaning his glove of blood and brain matter by wiping it on the garish suit. He reached up and removed his gore-slicked helmet. "You didn't aim for me?" he asked Rawne. The older Judge was standing ten yards away, the lawgiver he'd used to headshot the manager still extended, pointing at the younger man. Rawne shook his head.

"No, I think doing it this way is much better," he said. He gestured with his free hand, illustrating the points of his narrative. "The angry young Rookie, barging into the bank, emotional and distraught over the pretty little psi getting shipped off to Aspen. Threatens bank employees, assaults three in a vain attempt to prove her innocence – but there's nothing to be found. Angry, lovesick, seeing his dream vanish he murders the manager. SJS rides in at the last minute and stops his insane rampage." Rawne gave a humorless smile. "It has everything it needs – with the delicious added touch of forbidden romance. The press will have a field day, the pressure on the Chief Judge will be immense – she will decide psis are inherently unstable and _must_ be subject to SJS oversight."

Cornelius gritted his teeth. "You think they'll believe that?" he asked. Rawne actually laughed.

"You think they _won't?_" he taunted. He shook his head. "She should never have come to your apartment last night. What would _you_ believe?"

Cornelius closed his eyes, willing himself to not to consider Anderson's motivations – pure and impure, professional and private, appropriate or inappropriate – in the middle of a confrontation. He remembered her compassion, the going to two liquor stores to find cold beer. He pulled himself back with an effort. "I have a _confession_, Rawne," he said, gesturing at his helmet. "Quartermain saw the mail. It's _over_." He flinched as Rawne's gun roared again, fragments of ceramic and circuitry battering against him as his helmet exploded.

"No records, no witnesses," Rawne said simply. "Anderson's already dead – 'shot while trying to escape'. Quartermain can meet with an unfortunate accident – her testimony is already discredited, anyway. A Cadet, against a member of the SJS and a Tutor? Emotionally involved with Anderson? Inappropriately influenced by the powerful psi?" He shook his head. "It is over, but not for me."

Cornelius didn't feel anything when he heard Anderson was dead – the loss was too-sudden, too-matter-of-fact. Something deep inside him whispered Rawne was a liar, or mistaken – that he would _know_ if she were dead. He dismissed is as ludicrous fantasy, a desperate clinging to something he'd never had and had now lost. Anderson was gone – if her death was to mean anything, Rawne _had_ to lose. "The citizens in the bank," said Cornelius desperately. "The tellers, the patrons – what about them?" Rawne shrugged.

"I have men at the door – citizens can be made to disappear so easily; it's what cubes are for." He laughed. "Everyone has something they are guilty of – you know that. Always something you can nail someone on." He shifted his stance, taking a two-handed grip on his lawgiver. "You see," he said, "I've thought of everything. I win."

Cornelius raised a single eyebrow. "Win?" he asked. He chuckled and shook his head, reaching for his duty belt and unfastening it. "Where's the contest, Rawne? You disable my gun, have me cold at ten yards?" He tossed his belt aside, reached down and drew his boot knife. "You _really_ just want to shoot me?"

Rawne looked at him as if he were mad. "Do you think I'm a fool, Rookie?" he asked.

Cornelius shrugged. "Honestly?" he asked. "Yeah, I do. I think you were good once, but you've been hiding behind that rep for a long time."

"I should shoot you," said Rawne. It sounded like he was trying to convince himself as much as tell Cornelius.

Cornelius nodded. "Yeah, you should – then go tell your men you did. That I died with a knife in my hand and a bullet in my heart. You SJS are good at hearing whispers, right?" he asked. "You'll have plenty to listen to," he said meaningfully.

Rawne's face twisted. He holstered his gun, unfastened his belt and tossed it to the side, drawing his needle-bladed SJS knife and lunging for Cornelius' with a snarl of anger.

Cornelius leaped back as quickly as he could, the blade razoring the air inches from his stomach. He slashed, unscientifically; a desperate move to buy time. Rawne dodged easily and slipped inside his guard, jabbing at Cornelius' extended thigh. The SJS knife was almost a sharp-edged stiletto, with a narrow cross guard and a skull pommel. It pierced the leather of his uniform silently, sinking deep into the muscle. Cornelius hissed in pain and staggered back, sinking into a classic knife-fighting crouch, his blade held at his right hip and his left hand extended.

Rawne grinned ferociously, darting forward and then back, scurrying with quick footwork, his blade flashing and spinning so fast Cornelius couldn't truly keep track of it. Despite his posturing and boasts, Rawne was a formidable fighter – still the best in the city – and the outcome of a fair fight was never in doubt. His knife was everywhere, slashing at Cornelius, targeting the gaps between his armor plates, cutting through leather and flesh alike. In under a minute, Cornelius bled from a dozen wounds.

Cornelius staggered, his left arm hanging weakly, crimson pumping from his thigh, a deep slash in his abdomen. The strength in his core was gone, the wound deep enough to cut skeletal muscle. He slipped on a puddle of his own blood, losing his balance for a precious second. Rawne punished the lapse with a sudden lunge, the needle-thin knife thrust in and pulled out so fast Cornelius barely felt it. Rawne dodged the clumsy return swing and snarled, his teeth bared in a rictus grin. "Not so cocky now, are we?" he crowed.

Cornelius flung himself frantically forward, trying to use his greater height and weight to batter through Rawne's defenses. He grappled with Rawne, driving the blade into his thigh, drawing a cry of pain. "Tagged you . . ." Cornelius taunted.

Rawne snarled and stabbed hard and low, dragging his blade through Cornelius' abdomen. It pierced skin, muscle and viscera, the razor-edge cutting them like air. The blade juddered as it hit Cornelius' ribcage, nicking the bone, springing clear and slashing upwards. The knife's tip scraped his armor, cutting a bright line in the blackened metal, gouging a channel in the bronze of his badge.

The point of the knife bit into Cornelius' chin, clean to the bone. Rawne jerked it free and slashed. Cornelius jerked his head back, the blade whipping past too fast too see. He didn't even feel it when it sliced open his upper lip and left eyebrow.

Cornelius was pale from loss of blood, his elevated heart-rate pumping it faster. The pain was manageable, the crippling loss of strength was not. He stumbled backwards, clutching the gaping slash in his abdomen, holding the edges of the wound together and his guts in. Rawne grinned ferociously, lunged with the knife and then – at the last instant as Cornelius moved against it – tossed the blade glittering in the air, over his head to his other hand. He caught it and then, precisely, scientifically, contemptuously, as if he had all the time in the world, reached down and around Cornelius and brought it across the back of his calf, hamstringing him.

Cornelius grunted in pain, his leg going out from under him, crashing down onto one knee, his right hand automatically going out to support him. Rawne jumped backwards and spun as he slashed, cutting through Cornelius' forearm down to the bone. His hand sprang open, his fingers hanging useless, the knife slipping from his grasp. Rawne kicked the blade away. It spun, sparkling, into the litter of broken glass and discarded stationery.

Rawne gazed down in victory at Cornelius, kneeling in a pool of his own blood, pale and panting, defeated and unable to rise. Rawne flipped his knife in his hand, the blade flashing, drops of blood spinning off it. He clutched his own wounded leg – deep, serious, but not life-threatening. He was certainly capable of still fighting – the cocksure Rookie wasn't. "You lose," Rawne said triumphantly. He leaned forward over the young man's bowed head, enjoying the drip-drip-drip of blood from his slashed face. "Did you really think I taught you _everything_ I knew?"

Slowly, Cornelius raised his head, looking a Rawne through a film of his blood. He tried to answer, but didn't seem able to. He bent his neck again, shaking his head, his shoulders slumping in defeat.

And then he swept his forearm across Rawne's ankles.

Rawne gave a cry as his legs went out from under him, throwing his arms in the air as he crashed to the ground, his precious knife skittering away. He was winded for a single second, disoriented and gasping for breath. That was more than enough time for Cornelius to get his good leg under him, throw himself into the air and come down on Rawne, his bent elbow crushing his windpipe.

Bones shattered with a crackle in Rawne's neck and upper chest – clavicles, ribs, sternum – and dark blood burst from his mouth. Cornelius barely heard the muffled explosions and screams from outside the bank, instead dragging himself face-to-face with Rawne. "Did you really think you were my _only_ Tutor?" he whispered.

Rawne was dying, his trachea crushed, blood pumping in slowing pulses from his mouth as his heart failed from lack of oxygen. He made a long, drawn-out, continual croaking, his eyes staring upwards at nothing, and then fell into the silence of death. Cornelius struggled to push himself off the corpse, his wounds no longer hurting, reality going fuzzy at the edges. He couldn't feel his fingers. He knew the signs – he was going into shock. _Don't do this, you weak-kneed son-of-a-spug, get up, get up, get up . . ._

A sudden wave of compassion swept him back to consciousness. Arms were encircling him, a shoulder under his head. The copper smell of blood that wasn't his, cheaply-laundered clothes, but under that unfragranced shampoo and sandalwood soap. The arms were soft, the shoulder narrow, but there was a core of strength there. "John? John?" a voice was saying. A terrified, angry shout; "_Where are the drokking medics, Joe?_ John, oh Grud, John, don't you dare die on me . . ."

He was lying on his back, his head in Anderson's lap, Dredd looming over him. "He's lost a lot of blood," Dredd was saying – his voice sounded very far away. Quartermain had her hands on the spurting wound in his thigh, pressing down with the full weight of her shoulders, crimson leaking between her fingers in time with his heartbeat. Everything was fuzzy and indistinct, a dreamscape seen through gauze. He couldn't feel the pain of his wounds or Dredd's hands working on his slashed-up abdomen, but could see him as from a distance pushing his guts back into place, smell the sear of biofoam cauterizing flesh, and hear the snap of the staples going in. Dredd tossed the empty gun aside. "I'm out," he said.

Anderson fumbled on Cornelius' belt, passed his medikit to Dredd. She cradled Cornelius' head, her hands enfolding his mind. He felt her presence inside him – he was too-weak to resist her, too-weak to even _want_ to resist her. Her compassion embraced him, pouring a fierce determination into his empty reservoirs of willpower –_ not today, death._ She reached through his consciousness, past his mind and senses and thoughts to his autonomic functions. His heart-rate slowed and grew steadier. His vascular system responded to her backdoor commands, easing the impact of hypovolemic shock. He felt his mind float upwards towards the sunlight surface of the sea of unconsciousness, awareness drifting back. He looked up at Anderson. Her face – bruised, battered, beautiful – gradually resolved in his vision. There were tears in her eyes – psi-sympathetic pain and worry over his injuries. "You with me, John?" she asked with a hopeful grin.

A burning stab of pain in his thigh – sudden, real, awakening – proved he was alive and hurt. Smoke rose from the wound as Dredd tossed the biofoam dispenser aside. "Always, Cassie," he managed before he could stop himself. He tried to sit up – agony took him by the nape of the neck and shook him like a rat. "Get me up," he said.

Anderson shook her head. The litter of discarded medical equipment scattered in the smeared pool of blood should have told him just how bad it was. "You're in no fit state to . . ." she began.

He rolled himself over onto all fours, his head hanging. J-Dept field dressings were effective – deceptively so. They could make Judges think they could do more than they really could. Of course, the entirety of the training of the Academy was designed so Judges could do more than they thought they really could. "Get. Me. _Up_."

Anderson rolled her eyes and muttered something about _drokking macho munceheads_, but she still got her shoulders under his arm and helped him stand. His left leg hung useless, the middle fingers of his right hand unable to be moved. He winced, gritting his teeth against the pain, tasting the blood from his slashed lip, his left eye clotting closed from his eyebrow wound. He hopped to face Dredd, leaning heavily on Anderson, the extreme differences in their height meaning he had his elbow on her shoulder, her right arm around his waist. Dredd slowly looked him up and down.

"You look like Hell, Rookie," he remarked.

"Yes, Sir," agreed Cornelius. "Kinda feel like it, too."

Dredd gave his little nod and the twitch of the corner of his mouth. "Heh." He glanced at Anderson, gave a meaningful flick of his head. Whether through comradeship or psychic powers, she understood.

She reached behind her hip, pulled out her copy of The Law and lifted it up, setting it under Cornelius' left hand. Dredd straightened, looked his Rookie dead in the eye for the last time. "Put up your right hand," he said, "_Judge._"

Cornelius smiled, visible relief flowing through him. He breathed in, forced himself to stand straighter, and swore the oath of the Judges of Mega City One – to, and on, and for, The Law.

oOo

"I, John Cornelius, of my own free will and with full knowledge of the import and permanence of this oath, do solemnly swear to obey, enforce and uphold The Law as a Judge of Mega City One from this instant until my death. I promise impartiality and equal treatment under The Law to all – be they citizen, Judge, or alien. This I swear on The Law of Mega City One."

It was oh-eight-hundred hours the next morning in the Chief Judge's office. Wincing a little, moving gingerly and favoring his right leg, Cornelius lowered his hand and accepted his copy of The Law from the Chief Judge. He saluted smartly, held it while she returned the gesture. "Congratulations," she said simply. She leaned into him. "And well-done," she whispered.

"Thank you, Ma'am," said Cornelius. He stepped back as she turned to take another copy of The Law from the box on her desk, another former-Rookie stepping forward to swear the oath. There were a dozen graduates today – about average. The Chief Judge witnessed formal oaths each morning in a simple, modest ceremony that she nevertheless treated with gravity and solemnity. Perhaps half of the former-Rookies had, like Cornelius, taken the oath earlier with their assessor when they were told they'd passed. It was a display of comradeship, of acknowledgment, of passing the baton, that many senior Judges found comforting.

Why Dredd had done it, of course, wasn't that easy to pin down.

Cornelius nodded his thanks as he accepted his cane from the civilian auxiliary holding it for him, limping towards the corner of the room where Anderson, Quartermain, Brufen and Betancourt stood. Anderson and Brufen were, like Cornelius, in Class I Dress; brilliant justice-blue form-fitting jumpsuits with hunter-green boots, gloves, belt and knee- and elbow-pads. The pauldrons were dramatic and impractical – the eagle on the right covering the biceps and reaching halfway across the pectoral – made of gilded bronze so highly-polished it pained the eye. Quartermain was wearing Cadet Dress – a tailored suit in pale-blue with bronze-and-black shoulder flashes. Betancourt wasn't in uniform – by rights as NAAF(ret) he could have worn his dress uniform complete with Wing Commander brass, but Cornelius suspected he didn't like to be reminded of that time in his life. He wore a well-cut civilian suit, conservative and in good-taste, but with some eye-catching accents in the stitching and buttons.

As Cornelius approached, Quartermain bounced up and down and gave a few suppressed claps, grinning from ear to ear. Brufen glared at her, but Anderson smiled indulgently. She and Brufen snapped to attention and saluted, Cornelius returning the gesture. "I didn't expect to see you here," he said. "Thanks for coming."

Anderson didn't seem to know what to do with herself – her body language implied she'd have hugged him if it weren't inappropriate and it wouldn't have hurt him. She wondered if that had always been and would be the way it was. In defiance of all the uniform regulations, she stuffed her hands in her pockets and shrugged. "CJ and DCJ are meeting with Aegis immediately after the swearing-in ceremony," she explained. "So, we came early," she added lightly, as if she'd merely misread her chronometer. Cornelius nodded, accepting her reason, not wanting it to question it because then he would have to question himself.

"Congratulations, Cornelius," said Brufen stiffly. Cornelius acknowledged him with a curt nod but a warm smile. Betancourt thrust out a hand. Cornelius took it gingerly, but the pilot was gentle, aware of the Judge's wounds.

"Well done, man!" he grinned. "Glad to see you're up and walking – Cass said you were pretty carved up. You okay?"

Cornelius shrugged. Other than the adhesive-sealed slashes on his face, all his wounds were hidden under his uniform. "Surgeon said it was just a big stitching job," he said. "Sutures and pins and staples to hold me together, stem-cells and steroids for healing. Forty-eight hours and I'm good for desk duty – probably a week and he'll mark me fit for patrol."

Betancourt winced and shook his head. "Man," he said with feeling, "you people drokking scare me."

Cornelius laughed, clapped him on the shoulder. "That's how it's supposed to be, Nick," he said. "Thanks for coming." Betancourt shrugged like it was no big deal. Cornelius pointed at the Aegis patch sewn to Quartermain's uniform. "You back?" he asked.

Quartermain shrugged. "I guess?" she said. "I dunno – DCJ's gonna explain, apparently."

Cornelius nodded. "Well, look me up and tell me, okay?" he said. The newly-sworn Judges were filing out of the office, the Chief Judge moving to sit at her desk. "I should go," he said. He enveloped them with a smile and made to limp out of the office.

"Where are you going, Judge Cornelius?" the Chief Judge asked without looking up. Slowly and painfully, he turned.

"Erm, home, Ma'am," he said. "I have two days sick leave."

The Chief Judge signed a couple of documents, shuffled them together and only then lifted her head. "Would you mind staying for a while?" she asked. She gestured at a chair in front of her. "Please, take a seat if you need," she added kindly.

"Thank you, Ma'am," he said, sinking gratefully into the chair and stretching out his wounded leg. No sooner had he done so there was a smart rap at the door and a civilian auxiliary stepped through.

"Deputy Chief Judge Cal and Judge Dredd, Ma'am," he said shortly. Cornelius started to struggle to his feet as the two men entered, but Cal flagged him back down into the chair.

"At ease, Cornelius, at ease," he said casually. "No need to stand for me. You're lucky to be alive."

Cornelius gratefully sank back into the chair as Dredd growled, "Luck had nothing to do with it."

Cal turned to Dredd and fixed him with a careful stare, smiling thinly after a few seconds. Cal was about average height, slim but athletic, with a fine, regal face and tightly-curled blond hair. He turned to the psi. "Anderson," he said politely.

"Deputy Chief Judge." Anderson returned the courtesy with a nod. Cal bestowed a narrow smile on the rest of Aegis and then turned to the Chief Judge, the two of them walking to the corner of the office and conferring quietly for a few minutes. Dredd stepped towards the little knot of Aegis personnel. "Hey, Dredd," said Anderson. "You know Brufen, right?"

Dredd nodded, acknowledging the Tek-Judge. He looked at Betancourt. "Who are you?" he asked.

Betancourt grinned broadly and thrust out a hand. "Nick Betancourt," he said brightly, lifting his vistor's pass from where it was hanging on his lapel. He pointed at Cornelius. "I'm a friend of JC's," he explained.

Dredd turned to look at Cornelius, turned back to Betancourt. "JC," he said slowly. He shook his head and shrugged. "That doesn't tell me anything special in this crowd, Betancourt," he said. The pilot laughed.

"I'm the Aegis flyguy, Judge," he explained.

"Best pilot in the city," Anderson added. "South Asian vet."

Betancourt looked embarrassed, winced slightly. "Yeah?" asked Dredd, faintly impressed. Betancourt shrugged modestly. "I owe you a beer," Dredd said simply.

The Chief Judge and Cal stepped back into the room. "Deputy Chief Judge has the floor," she said. Cal nodded his thanks and stepped in front of the Chief Judge's desk.

"Thank you, Ma'am," he said. "SJS acknowledges – and I express extreme personal gratitude for – the actions of the Judges in this room in uncovering and eliminating Justice Department corruption. Preliminary investigation suggests Judge Rawne acted alone, tricking or forcing those under him into compliance with his scheme. SJS investigation is, of course, ongoing and we will not rest until we have uncovered all details and the full extent of any corruption." Cal was a devoted Judge, a tremendous investigator, and a brilliant manager – but he was also SJS with all that implied. His first, last and perhaps only true loyalty was to the integrity of the Justice Department. He'd built SJS into the instrument of that aim – and so he found himself in a tricky situation. Hunting down corruption was their job – and now it had been found in their own ranks. The investigation belonged, by rights, to SJS – and it looked as if the Chief Judge was going to show faith in her deputy by allowing him to carry it out rather than taking it out of his hands.

Anderson felt embarrassment underlying Cal's professionalism, together with sympathy from the Chief Judge. Both were understandable emotions, as was the trust and acceptance from her team, Cornelius and Dredd. Cal was a good man, as well-liked and respected as it was possible for a head of IA to be. Still, there was something deeper here – more than just an ambitious Judge. "Strong had a hypnotic compulsion to suicide, Sir," Anderson said darkly. "A psi implanted that – was that Rawne too?"

Cal gave a very thin smile, his politician showing. "As I said, Judge Anderson," he said, "SJS investigation is ongoing – with the assistance of Psi Division, we hope to get all the answers." Anderson raised an eyebrow and glanced over at Quartermain, who was making a very obvious attempt to hide her grin. "Yes, Cadet," Cal said with an indulgent smile. "Forthwith, you have divisional recognition, with the right to train Cadets internally. I would recommend, however, a close association with the Academy until such time as your training programs are fully established." Quartermain was practically vibrating, barely stopping herself from running over and hugging Anderson. Cal sighed, relaxed and even leaned back on the edge of the Chief Judge's desk. "There's been too-much inter-departmental rivalry, Judge Anderson," he said candidly. "I don't want a pissing contest any more than you do. _Aegis_ will remain with Psi Division, and SJS wants close co-operation with you. That means you help us – IA needs you."

Anderson nodded, looked apologetic. "I still missed Rawne," she reminded him.

"We can all be surprised," Cal said shortly. He looked down at Cornelius. "Thank you, Judge Cornelius," he said with feeling. "Your conduct was exemplary . . . and impressive." He shook his head in wonder. "I _really_ would have expected Rawne to kill you."

Cornelius shrugged. "We can all be surprised, Sir," he said blandly.

Cal nodded very slowly. "I understand you already have your assignment, Cornelius," he said. "But, if you're looking for a challenge, the Special Judicial Service could use a man of your . . . _talents._" He didn't articulate it, but every Judge in the room knew what he meant – a Judge-killer might be unwelcome anywhere in the Department except SJS.

Cornelius smiled. "Thank you, Sir," he said, "but I don't think SJS would be a good fit. My place is on the streets."

"Hmm." Cal fixed him with a careful stare and then nodded. "Just so," he said eventually. He clicked his heels together in attention and dipped his head to the Chief Judge, leaving the room without acknowledging the others.

The Chief Judge moved behind her desk once more and sat down. "Thank you all," she said briefly. She turned to Dredd. "And thanks for coming, Joe – I know you were on patrol."

Dredd's only acknowledgment was to ask, "We done, Ma'am?" The Chief Judge nodded.

"Dismissed," she said.

Cornelius started to struggle out of his seat, Anderson and Quartermain hurrying forward to help him. He accepted their assistance in walking to the door – more to spare their feelings than any necessity. He just needed to go home, lie down, take the painkillers, and go to sleep. A thought struck him as they entered the anteroom of the office. "How'd you get past the SJS at the bank?" he asked Dredd. "Weren't your guns overridden?" Dredd shook his head and pointed at Quartermain.

"Her idea – lateral thinking," he growled. "Lawgivers and widowmakers go off-line. Grenades? Not so much." Cornelius glanced at her with admiration. She shrugged modestly, then grabbed Anderson's hand.

"You promised Kitty Purry!" she exclaimed. "She's at the Garden in sector twelve, _tonight_." Anderson laughed and nodded.

"I did promise," she admitted with a grin.

"This a general invite," asked Betancourt, "or a private party?" The Judges looked at him with different kinds of wonder. "Hey," he said, spreading his hands innocently, "don't judge me, okay?" He turned to Quartermain. "I'll spring for burgers at Blockrockers," he offered.

"And froyo?" Quartermain asked hopefully.

"With caramel," he promised. Quartermain grinned and nodded, lifting her hand to him. They bumped fists, pulling them back and spreading their fingers like blossoming explosions.

Dredd shook his head dismissively. "Kids," he growled, turning and stalking away. Cornelius watched him go, his brows drawn together in thought, then limped after him as fast as he could.

"Hey, Dredd!" he called. "Wait up!"

The older Judge turned. If he noticed the use of his name, he gave no sign except returning the favor. "What is it, Cornelius?"

Cornelius swallowed nervously – now he was standing in front of him, this didn't seem like such an easy thing to ask. "Your shift finishes at nineteen-hundred, right?" he asked. Dredd nodded. "Ciudad Parada got out of the cubes six months ago – he was busted for narco possession."

"Yeah," Dredd said shortly. "I was the one who busted him."

Cornelius winced a little. "Right," he said. "Didn't know. Anyway – he's playing the Cavern tonight, comeback tour. Proceeds go to J-Dept, part of his parole agreement. They say he's off the sauce, as good on the gitter as he ever was. He's got some new material but most of it's old stuff. I was gonna go. If you wanted . . ." His voice trailed off when confronted by Dredd's immobile visor.

"When is it?" asked Dredd.

Cornelius blinked. "Twenty . . . twenty-hundred," he managed. "Maybe get there a little earlier to get a good table?" he suggested.

Dredd nodded. "Good to keep up on old cases," he said, more to convince himself than Cornelius. "See you there." He reached out and squeezed the younger man's shoulder. "Well done," he admitted. Cornelius wasn't entirely certain what he was referring to, but he'd take compliments from Dredd where he could.

"Thank you, Sir," he said to his mentor's departing back.

**A/n :** Yes, Rawne could have been called Oberyn or Martell, I suppose! I don't watch _Game of Thrones_ and haven't read the books, but I saw his death scene circulating on the internet. I don't think it's inaccurate or bad to say there is a degree of inspiration there.

The reference to "Aspen" is taken from the Stallone _Judge Dredd_ movie – it is the jail for Judges (presumably high in the Colorado Rockies, or what is left of them in the Cursed Earth). It replaces Titan there. The 2012 _Dredd_ movie didn't seem like a setting which had a lot of space-travel in, although the comics did.

There are a few nods to the comics – Corey is mentioned, and the Class I Dress uniform is imagined to be the comics' uniform (impractical for fieldwork, but perhaps suitable for formal occasions).

In the same vein as the comic's satirical / pop culture elements, this story has some modern pop-culture references. Marion Morrison is John Wayne's real name; I imagine there is a cowboy or action hero actor of that name in Mega City One. Similarly, "Bend it Like Beauchamp" (pronounced "Beacham") is a reference to soccer and "Bend it like (David) Beckham". Pot-o-Mud is a reference to the Potomac, inspired by "The Big Smelly" in "The Day the Law Died" and the pun "Rad Island" (for Rhode Island) in other stories – I am thinking this story mostly takes place in what is now Washington DC and environs – the capital zone, or CapZone of Mega City One. "Ciudad Parada" is made up of two Spanish words - "City" and "Stop" . . . or Townsend. (And if you are asking "Who?" I say . . . well done!)

For those of you who wondered at the word "Clytemnestra" - that is the name of the woman who killed the Greek mythological heroine Cassandra (a seer, whom Cassandra Anderson is likely named after). Appropriate name for a plan to kill Anderson!

Cornelius does take the oath twice – for details of my vision of the oathtaking, see my fic "Assessment Over".

Thanks for being along for the ride! And, please – review so I know how and if to move on (the box is _right there!_)

(There are "deleted scenes" posted next – there were a couple which were written but never made it into the final story. These aren't, of course, canonical.)


	4. Deleted Scenes

_**A/n : **The following two scenes were written and then deleted from "Aegis". I liked them, they just didn't work within the context of piece. I've given reasons for why each one was removed. Obviously, these scenes aren't "canon" and I only offer them because I liked them, thought they were well-written, and just wanted to share! Certain elements of them have appeared or might appear elsewhere._

_o_

_o_

_o_

_This scene appeared in part II, when Anderson visits Cornelius in his apartment. You can see where it fitted in – just after she starts talking about the armored windows. I did like the scene, but it got away from me – there isn't so much sexual tension here but rather sexual tension suddenly snapping. It works and displays the two characters' personalities – but it left me with nowhere to go. It makes absolutely ZERO sense for the two of them (as will happening in "Psi Files") to accept a posting living in close proximity to each other on Aegis. As much as "romance on a floating submarine" would be it would be completely unprofessional – and both of them are VERY professional._

_This scene ends abruptly – basically, at the point where I went "I just painted myself into a corner."_

"This make you feel as uncomfortable as it does me?" It was J- Dept policy to heavily armor Judges' apartments. Cornelius shrugged and took a swig from his Natty Boh.

"Pays to be safe," he said. "I mean, I've already been shot once," he added with a grin.

The smile came off Anderson's face instantly. "I'm sorry," she said insistently, "I really am."

"I'm joking," he told her. "That was in bad taste, I'm sorry."

"How is the arm?" she asked earnestly. "That looked bad." He shook his head.

"The ribs were worse," he said, "but it's all fine. The doc gave me more cortisone for the knee, bone staples and a knitting compound for the ribs and a shot of stem-cells for the arm." He set his beer down and unwrapped the bandage, performing a few slow curls, pumping the bicep. The wound was a pair of neatly-sutured lines, the muscle the corded bulge she remembered from earlier. A sudden warmth engulfed her core, threatening to liquify resolve she didn't even know she needed. "Aches a little," he admitted, "but nothing serious. Doc says to take it easy for a day or so, but I'm cleared for duty tomorrow. I'm more worried about your shoulder, to be honest. That felt tender. You see the medic?" he asked blithely. She nodded, tearing her eyes off his flexing arm.

"Bruised trap and delt," she said shortly. Her voice sounded very far away to her ears. "Gave me another N-SAID shot. Said I might want to get a massage."

His hand hovered over her shoulder; the massive, powerful, steel-trap tool that had already encompassed her shoulder once today. "You get one?" he asked. Her mouth was dry, she couldn't speak. Dumbly, knowing what would happen if she did, wanting it and not wanting to want it, knowing she shouldn't and knowing she would, she shook her head. He started to unbuckle her armor web and she gasped at the thrill that shot – delicious, unbidden, expected – through her. "What?" he asked. "I'm rated," he assured her.

"Oh," she breathed, flustered. He had no idea what he was doing to her – truly, honestly, no drokking idea. "Oh, yes, I'll . . . I'll bet you are."

Suddenly, Cornelius thought he realized the problem. "Oh, Grud, I'm sorry," he exclaimed. "I didn't . . . you know what it's like," he explained. "When you're a cadet, in the dorms, there's no privacy . . . boundaries are . . ." He held up his hands. "I'm so sorry," he said seriously. "That was utterly inappropriate. I should have asked."

She shook her head furiously despite herself; it would be _so_ much more sensible to let him believe that. "Oh, no!" she exclaimed, "if you'd asked I'd have said yes." Her hand flew to her mouth as if she could catch the words. "I mean . . . No, that's not . . . You . . . you're very . . ." She gestured vaguely with her hands, encompassing the large space his body occupied. "Very _very_," she said emphatically. She ran her hands over her face and through her hair. "Oh, my," she said, awkwardly easing her way around him in the confined space near the window, very well-aware of his presence and bulk, his warmth and scent. She stood by the table, facing away from him, her fingertips resting on it so they didn't tremble.

Suddenly, the credit-chip dropped for Cornelius. He looked down at his body in the work-out clothes – he had little physical vanity, but he knew he was athletic, in perfect shape, even considered handsome. He didn't see it but that didn't alter the facts on the ground. He took a half-step towards her, opened his mouth, formed the thought, didn't articulate it.

That wasn't enough to stop Anderson knowing what it was. "Oh, JC," she breathed, "please don't make this more complicated than it is."

He sighed. "I guess I can't have secrets from you," he realized. He breathed in, gathered his courage and squared his shoulders. "You are," he said simply.

"You think I am," she corrected him coolly, her eyes locked on the far wall.

He shrugged – this wasn't a time for philosophy. "Whatever," he said, "it's the truth."

"That doesn't . . ." she began. "I know," she said, "but . . . I'm flattered. Really, I am, and . . . but you shouldn't . . ."

"See," said Cornelius reasonably, "if you weren't a telepath, you wouldn't . . ."

She spun around, her face a picture of shock, her mouth a perfect O, her hands spread. "If I weren't a telepath?" she exclaimed. "How about if _you_ weren't six-foot-four of honest-to-Grud Baltimore beefcake?" she asked. He blinked once or twice into the sudden silence. "I didn't just say that," she said quietly.

Cornelius stood awkwardly, like he was in the middle of a ring of landmines. He jerked his thumb towards one of the doors. "I'm going to go put my uniform on," he said firmly.

Anderson raised one finger, pointed at him. "That . . . would be a good idea," she nodded. He fairly dashed into his bedroom, the door slamming behind him with unnecessary force. She put her hands over her face and let out a very long breath. "Oh, Grud, Cassandra – what the drokk are you doing?" she asked herself. "You aren't doing _anything!_" she replied. "This didn't happen, and we're never going to talk about it again." He looked at the two empty bottles with her lipgloss on the mouths angrily. She snatched one of them up, looking at the alcohol content. It was low, disappointingly low, too-low for an excuse. She made it anyway. "Natty Boh!" she exclaimed. "Never again."

"Ma'am." His voice interrupted her self-dialog. She turned to him. "Better?" he asked.

He was in his uniform – fresh, neat, brand-new off the rack, probably never worn before, immaculate with the laser-level precision of a recent graduate. He was wearing the armor webbing and his weapon belt – as she watched, following him with her eyes, he walked to the bookshelves and lifted his lawgiver off the top, holstering the weapon. She gave a slightly-sickly smile.

"Yes," she lied. "Much better. Thank you."

"So . . ." began Cornelius. She shook her head.

"No," she said firmly. "There is no conversation. This never happened. I'm leaving now, and we never talk about this again. I was a fool to come here, and you were a fool to . . ." She smiled, dipped her head to him. "Goodnight, JC," she said.

"Wait." He reached out and caught her by the arm. She gasped, not trying to break free, her face a churning mess of emotions. "No – that's not how it is. I'm not going to pretend that didn't happen."

o

o

o

_This scene originally appeared in Part III. Initially, I had Dredd telling Cornelius "[you] don't look fit to me, Rookie" and refusing to take him out on patrol (leaving him free to investigate stuff). Quartermain investigated Rawne, while Cornelius raided the flophouse. This scene was written to show how Cornelius found who the local gang was._

_I removed it for a couple of reasons. Firstly, I wanted to get Dredd in there – he needed something to do rather than just saying "Rookie, you investigate – I'm off on patrol". It didn't seem in character for Dredd. Secondly, it slowed the story – who the local gang is is something easily discovered (as Dredd says). Thirdly, when I moved the raid to Dredd's column this scene didn't work – Dredd would have arrested the realtor, the husband, and probably the wife too. He wouldn't act like Cornelius did here – so the scene was abandoned._

_Elements of it (the tone of being the "nice Judge") can be seen in the scene with Candi; which is, really, just a distraction to show Cornelius' personality. The description of the realtor was used for the banker in Part III._

The realtor was pudgy and florid, his dyed-black hair slicked back in an unconvincing combover, dressed in a oversized suit of orange, green and gray check with blue knee and elbow pads. It was not overly hot in the corridor of the hab-block, but he was sweating as he talked, dabbing at his shining forehead with a red-and-white polka-dot handkerchief which matched his cravat. "A fine apartment," he assured the young couple looking through it. "Ideal for first-time renters."

Cornelius walked through the open door. The husband gasped and looked around, almost as if looking for somewhere to run. Cornelius shook his head. "Not you," he said. He noticed the man's nervousness, pointing his visorcam at him to get a good picture and then tabbing a button on his wrist to send the image to Control. "You," he said, pointing with his chin at the fat man. "You're the block realtor?"

The man nodded. "But I'm in the middle of showing this _fine_ home to this lovely couple, Judge," he said greasily. "Perhaps this could wait?"

Cornelius shook his head. "No," he said. "You're gonna have your finger on the pulse – local gangs, what do you know?"

The realtor's smile became a little less real and a little more annoyed. "Like I said, Judge, I am _busy_ – perhaps later?"

Cornelius glanced around the apartment. "You really cleaned this place up well," he remarked. It was, in truth, an impressive turn around – but, in gang-ravaged Mega City One, realtors and their cleaner-decorators had plenty of practice. He turned to the couple. "After the torture and execution of the J-Dept informant who lived here, I mean," he explained. He addressed the realtor as the wife gasped and her hand flew to her mouth, the husband looking queasy. "What did you use – latex paint to stop the blood bleeding through? Steam-clean the carpet?" He looked up. "Whoops! You missed a bit on the chandelier."

Horror flashed over the realtor's face. He glared at Cornelius then faced the couple, wringing his hands. "It's a dangerous city, folks!" he told them, his voice oily. "But our professional cleaning crew thoroughly cleaned and disinfected the whole apartment before we brought in new carpet, new furniture and freshly painted the walls. And no additional charge!"

The couple didn't look impressed. "You know," remarked Cornelius, "I hope the word's got around the stoolie's dead – I mean, I'd _hate_ for the local gangbangers to confuse you two for some nark." The wife grasped her husband's arm, staring at him in horror.

"Thank you _so_ much, Mr Remax," said the husband, "but I think this _won't_ be suitable for our needs." The wife nodded as the two of them started to leave, ignoring the realtor's objections.

Cornelius' communicator bleeped. He glanced down at his wrist, scrolling through a couple of pages of information. "Wait," he said, meaningfully reaching for his cuffs and fixing the man with a gimlet stare, "where are you going?"

The husband gulped, glanced at his wife. "To . . . return those overdue vids and pay the fine?" he suggested hopefully.

Cornelius smiled and slipped his cuffs back into his belt. "Good citizens," he said, dismissing them with a flick of his head. He turned to Remax. "Hey, look at that," he said. "Now you're free – isn't it wonderful how that works out?" His smile vanished as if it had been switched off. "Tell me about local gangs; who killed this guy?"

Remax only just stopped himself from stomping his foot in frustration. "You just cost me a lot of money, Judge!" he exclaimed. "And, really, I'm sure I can't help you – what would I know about local gangs? I am merely a real estate agent."

"Hmm." Cornelius looked down at the carpet – it was a distinctive pattern, one he recognized from the crime scene photos Anderson and Dredd had snapped the day before. "Cost you a lot of money?" he asked. "I might cost you more than that. You said this was a new carpet?" The realtor nodded. "What say I put the luminol on it and we see if it's the same carpet as yesterday, just cleaned? Misrepresentation of goods or services for sale or rent _is_ a felony," he reminded him.

The realtor's face worked, but it was only when Cornelius reached behind him and opened the pouch containing the CSI kit that he broke. "Alright!" he exclaimed. "It's _impossible_ to make a living under these conditions. If you Judges ever responded, property values might . . ." He trailed off as Cornelius glared. He sighed. "This level, the two above and the one below are controlled by the Cawdor."

"Big, small?" asked Cornelius.

Remax sighed. "Big enough to make our lives miserable if we don't pay up," he said glumly. A sudden thought struck him. "You're going to raid them?" he asked eagerly. "Their headquarters is a bar on 24."

Cornelius nodded. "How many gangers in the bar?" he asked. Remax shrugged.

"How would I know?" he asked. He stuck his porcine nose in the air. "As you can imagine, Judge," he said snootily, "one does not frequent such establishments." Cornelius smiled thinly.

"You're missing out," he said dryly. "You think these Cawdor 'eagled the nark?"

Remax was the product of a sheltered upbringing, and it took him a moment to realize what Cornelius was asking. "Eagled . . . ?" he asked. "Oh, yes, yes," he said. "On this level, if anyone did it, it was them."

Cornelius nodded. "Thank you," he said, "you've been most helpful." Remax snorted.

"I wish I could say the same," he muttered.

Turning to leave, Cornelius ignored the jibe – but then he spun back and looked around the apartment. "How much does a place like this rent for?" he asked. Remax looked puzzled.

"Around eight-hundred," he said.

Cornelius shook his head. "Drokk me, but we're paying those narks too much," he muttered.

o

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_Another scene from part III – this was actually published, but was edited thanks to suggestions from Starsurfer108 who felt the roundhouse kick from Anderson was too-similar to the movie. Both he and I were also worried about the fact Anderson seems pretty passive and ineffectual in places; the retelling allowed me to make Anderson more kick-ass (and also use her psychic powers!) It also avoided something which had been worrying me – why did Strong shoot his own man? Why not just shoot Dredd, then finish off Quartermain, and say the whole thing had been an attempted jailbreak?_

_Where this scene goes is pretty obvious – the first and last paragraphs are the overlap._

Dredd nodded, glanced at a map on the wall and set off at a run, Quartermain and Strong at his heels. As they approached corridor five, they could hear the sounds of a struggle, a woman's voice raised angrily. They rounded the corner, to see Anderson – hands cuffed behind her, her trim figure disguised in the unflattering orange jumpsuit – struggling with two SJS Judges. As they watched, one slugged her in the jaw with the full force of his arm. Her eyes glazed and she slumped, crashing to her knees, her head hanging – the very image of the defeated prisoner. One of the SJS Judges drew his pistol and pointed it between her eyes. "Shot while trying to escape," he sneered. "A classic."

Strong fired without warning, hitting the Judge in the gut and spinning him around. His shot went wide, missing Anderson's shoulder by inches. The SJS Judge grabbed at his wound, falling onto one knee, a look of disbelief and betrayal on his face as he struggled to lift his gun, pointing it at Strong. Strong shot him twice more, both shots hitting him square in the chest. He slumped backwards, his gun falling from his hand, dead before he hit the ground.

The other SJS Judge immediately saw what had happened and grabbed Anderson, hauling her upright, using her semi-supine body as a shield, jabbing his gun into her kidneys. "She was trying to _escape_, Sir!" he yelled. "Rawne ordered . . ."

"Dredd just told me Rawne is dirty!" Strong hissed. His gun was held unwavering. "So, tell me, what should I do?"

Anderson seemed barely conscious, sagging limply in the SJS Judge's grasp, blood and saliva drooling from the corner of her mouth. One of her knees went out, and she started to slump to the floor, slipping out of the Judge's grasp. He shifted his weight to keep her body between him and Strong, leaning over her as he did so. Abruptly she stiffened, standing up and jerking her neck so the crown of her skull slammed hard into his chin, snapping his head back. He staggered, briefly stunned, as Anderson rolled forward. She bent her legs and tucked herself into a ball, sliding her hands under her hips. She vaulted back to her feet with the suddenness of a conjuring trick, her wrists now cuffed in front of her.

The SJS Judge steadied himself against the wall and pointed his gun at her. She was on him in a second, spinning like a dervish. She roundhouse-kicked the pistol away and slammed him in the face with her other foot. She jumped for him, jamming the chain of the cuffs into this throat, her fists up under his ears. The two of them struggled briefly, he making real use of his height and weight to shove her back. They spun around, almost looking like they were dancing.

"Shoot him, for Grud's sake!" yelled Quartermain.

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_If there are any particular scenes or elements of scenes you think are particularly good and would like to see in other stories, please – let me know in a review! They will likely make an appearance!_


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